You've Stolen My Earhart

Holy fucking shit.

Have you ever seen a picture of Amelia Earhart?

'Cause she looks like this:
Jeeeeeezus. Why does nobody tell me anything important?

Why did I learn nothing of value in elementary school?

See this book?

I read this book in second grade. (I read it really fast, too. I was in the Owl group.)

This book talks about how brave Amelia Earhart was; how daring she was for her time. It tells you that girls can do everything!

For some reason, though, the book neglects to inform its impressionable reader that Amelia Earhart was a MOTHERFUCKING BUTCH

HEART ATTACK MONSTER BABE who will steal your soul if you look in her puckish, twinkling dyke-eyes.

NOWHERE in the book are there actual pictures of Amelia Earhart.
Had there been real pictures, I could have saved myself years of painful questioning and experimentation. One look at Amelia would have solved it. *BAM!*

I would have opened to Page One and gone, "Oh, I guess I'm a homosexual. Thanks, Amelia Earhart!"

Girls really can do everything.

So, after seeing real photographs of Amelia Earhart, the question is: What am I supposed to do now?

I was going to go see Amelia on the big screen this Friday. You know, because Hilary Swank is in it. Hilary Swank acting dyke-y is like Christmas morning for my imagination.

Boys Don't Cry? Tragic. I was shattered.

But: new fantasies. (I realize this is like jerking off to Schindler's List, but it can't be helped.)Million Dollar Baby? Tragic.

But: I was set for months of "Krista Alone Time."Hilary Swank as Amelia Earhart in Amelia? Let me give that a FUCK YES. I was ready to see this movie.
But now I just don't know. I don't know if I can stand to watch Hilary swanking around in my lover Amelia's clothes.

Now that I've learned the truth about the real Amelia Earhart (namely, that she was so hot I've been considering drowning myself in a cold shower, just to be with her)...I'm not so sure I can watch this movie.

Well. A passionate crush on a dead person.

I've sunk to a new low.

Unlike the time I had a boner for Kylee, the barista/cello player who models on the side, this time, my crush is dead.

No amount of charm is going get me into Amelia's jodhpurs. Nothing I can say or do is going to get me anywhere near that sweet boyish pilot-ass.

Maybe if I go see Hilary Swank in Amelia, I can conjure up an imaginary threesome: me, Amelia I, and Amelia II. "Ladies, are we sure we have enough lube for the propeller? It's going to be a very long flight, and we'll really be packed in there."

That miiiiiiiight make me feel better.

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Fangs for Nothin'

Hey gays!

Yesterday morning, I was home in Chicago and I was awake early.
Both of these circumstances are unusual. I am never home and I am never, ever awake early.

The dawn broke. I was suddenly taken with the way my favorite lil' piece looked in the morning light. She was naked, sleeping, and had both her arms thrown over her head. (Cosmo's What Does Your Man's Sleeping Style Say About Him? article says that means CJ is arrogant yet needing love.) She looked adorable. She looked soft. She looked...vulnerable.

My thirst was unbearable. With the deathly Dark hiss of the Undead, I reared back. I bared my fangs. Exposed soft flesh! I lunged!

My victim's scream pierced the cold morning air.

It was almost as loud as mine.

OWWWWWW!!!!!!!!

Awakened in a flash, CJ lept from a dead sleep to fully standing.
"BABY, WHAT THE HELL???!" she bellowed.

I couldn't speak. I was crouched in the corner, covering my mouth with my hands, making small, mewling noises.

People, I...I chipped my tooth. On CJ's hipbone.

I've never had very good depth perception.

Perhaps this is God's way of saying, "I don't like it when you do role-playing with your homosexual lover."

The tiny, deep-blue puncture-mark on her skin started slowly filling up with blood.

CJ nobly forgot her fury when she saw that my pain was greater than hers.

CJ: Did you hurt your mouth?

(I can't answer)

CJ: What the hell were you doing?
(I can't answer)

CJ: Here, lemme see. (Pries my hand away from my mouth) Your tooth?
(I nod miserably)

CJ: It's chipped! You chipped your fang!
(slowly dawning realization)
Omigod...I'm safe! Safe at last!!

This sucks. Fuuuuuuck. My cute lil' sharp canine. My fang!

How am I supposed to be a vampire now?
Shit.

I used to think I was special, but now I know the truth. I'm not the only lesbian with a vampire thing. (Tawnya, if you're reading this, I want my vamporn comics back. And the pages better not be all stuck together.) There's tons of lesbo-vampire erotica out there. Lots of us dykes loooove vampires. Why is that?
Not surprisingly, I have theories.

Theory #1: Lesbians love vampires because they're sexy. Draining someone's life-force through a throbbing, vulnerable pulse point is kinda...ummm, alotlikefistingwhosaidthat? Think about it: Vampires. Someone is clearly the top, and someone is clearly the bottom. There's a lot of power-play goin' on. Also, instead of being portrayed in the media as hideous monsters, vampire-women are always hot babes who wear tight black outfits and vicious heels. Dykes like hot babes in tight black outfits even more than straight male teenagers. Theory #2: Lesbians love vampires because vampires, just like lesbians, actively recruit. You get bitten by a vampire and like it; you join the team. You get fucked by a hot girl and like it; you join the team.
Theory #3: Lesbians love vampires because vampires are not afraid of blood. Lesbians aren't afraid of blood, either. They can't be. Take two girls living together - when their cycles start matching up, that bathroom trash is going to look like a murder scene once a month. Theory #4: Lesbians like vampires because boi dykes want Edward Cullen's hair. Theory #5: Lesbians like vampires because a surprising amount of dykes have strangely sharp canine teeth. It's true! Look around at your muff-diving friends. Check out those teeth! I think it must be genetic. Sharp canines = more likely to want to bite tender female necks.
Theory #6: Lesbians love vampires because lesbians worship Angelina Jolie. Angelina Jolie used to wear a vial of her lover's blood around her neck. She no longer does this. Obviously, it was an emergency snack.
I don't know about you homos, but I've read/seen enough Ann Rice, True Blood, Twilight, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, etc etc to fill my mind with violent vampire nonsense and trash, 24 hours a day!

It is not my fault if the females around me continue to get undressed with no thought to their personal safety.

So the lion laid down with the lamb.

What a stupid lamb.

What a sick, masochistic lion (who has to go to the dentist.)

More Classtime = More Asstime

Alright, everybody put your book under your desk.

Get out a sheet of paper and a pencil.

POP GAYDAR QUIZ!!

Read each question carefully.

1) Diana the Bisexual Hipster lives in New York City. She spends her time going to concerts for bands that nobody's ever heard of. One night, at a concert for The Weakerthans, Diana sees A Really Hot Girl. Diana gets a drink at the bar and decides to watch the Really Hot Girl for a minute, to gauge the situation. The Really Hot Girl is: mixed ethnicity, slim, and has a choppy haircut with colored streaks.

Tonight, she is wearing: tight-ass jeans, smart-girl glasses, leather cuffs on both her wrists, a T-shirt with butterflies and unicorns on it, a Carhartt jacket, lots of eyeliner, and black motorcycle boots.

IS THE REALLY HOT GIRL STRAIGHT OR GAY? ______________

WHAT SHOULD DIANA DO? ___________________

--------------------------------------------------------------

2) Alicia Homosexual works on a large horse ranch in Bumblefuck, New Mexico. She works with lots of ranch hands, but she especially likes Jan, a ranch hand who seems as if she might be a lesbian. Alicia isn't sure whether Jan prefers men or women, and would like to be sure before asking Jan out. (Rural New Mexico is not the place to be asking other people if they are gay, and ranch hands carry guns.)

Jan is: 45 years old, Caucasian, brawny, and has a short haircut.

Today, she is wearing: men's jeans, a worn flannel shirt, a Carhartt jacket, brown steel-toed boots, a vest with lots of pockets, and an assortment of gold rings - one on almost every finger. Jan has pierced ears. She never wears sunscreen.

IS JAN STRAIGHT OR GAY? __________________

WHAT SHOULD ALICIA DO? _________________

Each of these questions is worth 50% of your final grade.
TIME'S UP! Pencils down.

Pass your papers forward.

Ok, people, are you ready for the answers?

Let's look at Question #1.

Q: Is the Really Hot Girl straight or gay?

A: Ha! Is this test for babies?

The Really Hot Girl is, without question, 100% gay. Absolutely, positively a dyke. How do I know? Fuck everything else, look at her Carhartt jacket! Only lesbians wear Carhartt jackets in the city.

If you don't know, a Carhartt jacket is khaki-or-olive-colored jacket you can buy at Fleet Farm, and Carhartt is a brand-name for farmers.

You cannot live in a city and have a Carhartt jacket and not be a lesbian. It is simply not possible. Hipster dykes wear them "ironically." Straight people do not own ironic items from Carhartt.

Q: What should Diana the Bisexual Hipster do?

A: Buy that ironic lesbian a drink! Then spend the rest of the night comparing who knows more people in shitty bands.

How about Question #2?

Q: Is Jan straight or gay?

A: Trick question!!

It's impossible to tell.

Jan has all the classic dyke signifiers: she's big and muscular, has a short haircut, and she wears men's clothes, including the Carhartt Jacket.

BUT!!!!! Jan works on a ranch in rural New Mexico. Farm women look like dykes, dress like dykes, and act like dykes. Most of the time, though, they're straight.

Do you understand why Jan is not definitely a lesbian? Jan is not wearing the Carhartt jacket ironically. Jan is a real ranch hand who really works on a ranch! Alicia needs definitive proof that Jan likes women, such as finding girlie mags under Jan's mattress.

Q: What should Alicia Homosexual do?

A: Stay the hell away from Jan until she's certain Jan is gay.

Hoo!

These were tricky, weren't they?

Well, we've been working on our Girlie Gaydar for a long time now; it's only natural that the questions would be getting harder.

So, to sum up, just so we're all on the same page here:

* If a woman is wearing a Carhartt jacket and lives in a large city...She's gay.

* If a woman is wearing a Carhartt jacket and lives in the country...She's straight until further notice.

* If a woman is wearing a Carhartt jacket, is from the country, and is visiting a large city...she's gay and in town for Pride Weekend.

And class? Everybody failed.

We can't submit these scores! With No Child Left Behind, we'd be in deep shit.
We'll call this a practice test, and try again soon.

Kentucky Dirty

Hi sluts!

I'm here in Louisville, Kentucky, where the ladies are a little more…ladyish.

I was expecting this. Most stereotypes have at least a teensy original kernel of truth in them – that’s why they’re funny and/or painful.

And the ladies in the South are delivering on stereotypes. These women are funnily, painfully Southern. They really do have Big Hair. They really do say, “Y’all, come ovah heeyah and get chy’alls books for the seminar from thisheeyah girl.”

They all have acrylic, manicured nails. These are painted in soft shades of rose, coral, pink, or…pink. Every single woman I've seen has these nails.

Even the lesbians.

Today, I’m staying at the Galt House, the fanciest hotel in Louisville, and fuck if I’m not completely underdressed.

Usually, in whatever city I get sent to for work, the women who attend my seminars go, “Ooh, cute boots!” or, “Ooh, I like your pretty little scarf!” in the morning when they’re checking in, just to have something to say to me.
I’m used to this. I have a nicely swelled ego from all these fake compliments.

So I was not surprised when a Southern Lady, as she was signing in for the seminar, reached across my registration desk and touched me. (Middle-aged women have even hazier boundaries than I do.) She ran her fingers through my hair.

I wasn't concerned - this has actually happened before. I sat still, like a spaniel, waiting for my compliment-treat. The Southern Lady was supposed to say, “Ooh, I just love your choppy haircut.” (Know why it's choppy? Safety scissors and lack of skill.) That's what I was expecting.

What she said, however, was, “You know, sugar, you would be so pretty if you would just do somethin’ with this mop.”
Well!

Clearly, the Southern Women in my seminar were different from the ones I met last night.

Last night, as I was walking to dinner, I came across a group of four obvious Southern Lesbians. Short haircuts and sweatshirts in the South = Dykes.

They were sitting in the bar, drinking. They looked like they were having a great time. Delighted, I smiled at them and said hi as I walked by.

The Southern Lesbians either ignored me or didn’t hear me, so I got embarrassed and blushed furiously. I then pretended to take a Very Important Cell Phone Call. (I do this a lot at parties. When I feel really rejected/unconfident, I will pretend it’s an international friend calling, just to let everyone know that not only do I have to take this call, but I have to take it in Italian. Because I am obviously a Very Important Busy International Business Jet-Setter.)

If you ever see me do this, please don’t call me out on it. It’s all I have.

After dinner, I walked back to my room. The Southern Lesbians were still there. Still drinking. I felt braver. They had to be drunk by now.

I wandered over to them and bellied up to the bar. Blatently ignoring them, I loudly ordered a Shirley Temple with extra cherries, because I knew it would get their attention.

LEZFACT: Lesbians cannot stand the sober person at the party.

The Southern Lesbians were all drinking hard liquor. The dyke next to me whooped.

"A Shirley Temple! What are you ordering that for?"

"I've had a few too many tonight," I said. Lies! I had ginger ale with dinner.

"You're still standin'!" she said. "You should have what we're havin'!"

Me: What are you having?

Southern Lesbian: Dead Nazis!

Me: Dead Nazis taste like mouthwash.

(Southern Lesbians cackle.)

Me: Anyway, a Dead Nazi is not a Southern drink. Y'all are supposed to be drinking Wild Turkey. Or mint juleps.

SL: Whaaat? We’re all drinkin’ Dead Nazis. You should get a Dead Nazi.

Me: I’ll get a Dead Nazi if I can ask you all some questions for my blog.

SL(instantly wary): What kinda questions?

Me(in a rush): Well, um, I’m a lesbian, I write a blog about lesbians. And I –

SL: LESBIANS! WHAT?! WHAT DO I KNOW ABOUT LESBIANS?? DO I LOOK LIKE A LESBIAN TO YOU???

Me(terrified): Uh.

SL: HAHAHAHA! ‘Cause I sure am! (all Southern Lesbians guffaw) But we gotta keep it jus' between us! How can you tell?

Me: You’re the only fun ones here.

SL: What’s your question, sweetiepie?(shoves my wallet away) I'm buying.

Me: It’s personal. You don’t have to answer. If you don’t want.

SL: C’mon.

Me: Ok, well, um. What is up with your nails? Everybody’s nails! You all have really long nails here! How do you, you know...

SL:(friends snickering) Heh. Sweetiepie, you don’t need to nevermind long nails. (shows me her nails) We keep ‘em that way because we live here – we're teachers. It ain’t like Chicago. In Kentucky, I guess women are a bit more feminine, and it’s ok to be gay, it’s just not something you talk about with everybody and their mother.
Me: So you get fake nails to fit in? So people don’t kick your ass?
SL: Sure! (orders another Dead Nazi)

Me: No offense, but who are you fooling?

SL: Not you! Clearly!

Me: Mmkay, I'm sorry, but I still don't get it. I have to get more personal than that. How do you, you know, um…doitwiththosenails?

SL:(waggling her fingers with the palms facing me): Gotta use the pads, sweetie. Pads of your fingers.

Me: You are fucking with me. It doesn’t hurt?

SL(grinning): Get enough liquor in ya, nothing hurts.

Me: Holy shit.

SL: Jokin’ honey! Jokin’! God, you're easy!

What great dykes. Two of the four Southern lesbians had two first names; i.e. Mary Jo and Stacey Ann.

They were so funny, and so crass, and so careful to include me. I wanted to stay in the bar with them for the rest of my life. They were going to a convention the next day, but there were big plans to go to another bar when the Galt House bar shut down.

People, these women were fifty fucking years old. They threatened to follow me back to my room to “find out how the Yankees do it.”

Oh, Louisville.

I should be so fun at 50.

Flo Motion

Attention! Very Important News Here Today:

I have a new crush.

It's a celebrity.

OMG PAINFUL UNREQUITED LOVE!!!!
Her name is Flo, and she's the gorgeous bossy/nice/bitchy woman on those fucking Progressive commercials.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, you need to go here immediately to watch her in action:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GrtMM5suUCg&feature=related

How is it possible that I never noticed Flo before??

I've been watching those stupid commercials for over a year without ever really paying attention.

Here's what happened: Last night in my hotel room, in between back-to-back episodes of The Office, a Progressive ad came on. I didn't have to pee. I wasn't changing the channel. I wasn't going to move if I could possibly help it. I was a lazy, receptive audience. She appeared onscreen. The Progressive woman.

Her fiery lips were like scarlet pillows. Her liquid eyeliner was drawn with a heavy hand, giving her a feline appearance. Her slightly-too-light foundation announced to the world, "I'm a pinup girl! I have something naughty on, underneath my starched white nurse-dress!"
Her raven hair was restrained by a no-nonsense headband, yet I knew too well how it would tumble about her face, unencumbered, when we made love. Her nametag, stitched above a pert breast, read "Flo."

My heart thudded.

Then Flo opened her beautiful mouth. And she was bossy. And slightly bitchy. And extremely excited. She used "Mom Voice" with all her confused customers, cheerfully helping them and gently putting them in their places.

God, I loved her. I loved her sarcasm. I loved her humor. I loved her icy, flashing eyes. She's like every punk waitress I've ever lusted after.

Flo looks like a badass Seattle MILF. The kind you know has tattoos you can't see. Or a bike punk who runs a restaurant in Minneapolis. She looks like she smokes after sex and knows how to French inhale.
I wished she was my morning barista. I wished she was my 2nd-grade teacher. I wished she was my irritated babysitter telling me to "get the hell out of that tree."

In a 30-second spot, Flo was bringing up all sorts of totally pathetic fantasies for me.

She probably plays bass in a band.

When she left the TV screen, I didn't have the stomach for another episode of The Office. What do I care if Jim and Pam ever get together??(it was a rerun.) I had found true love, and I wanted more!Now, when you are an obsessive-type lesbian with somewhat fuzzy boundaries, you do the obvious thing to a crush: Google her. And then watch, on YouTube, every single commercial for car insurance that she's ever been in. Twice.

Flo's real name is Stephanie Courtney. She's in theater, mostly. She looks boring in person - nothing like the elegant vision that is Flo in the Progressive commercials.

And...she's married.

WHY??????

Flo clearly displays definite markers of femme dykeism: She's direct, cutting, wears lots of red lipstick that's not quite right for her skin tone, and she told me through the TV in a secret message that she wants to meet me in Louisville, KY tonight.

She did.

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Family Fun Night

(Beatbox!)

Who wants to play a brand-new game?
Putcha hands in the air, say "YEAH"

Said who wants to play a brand-new game?
I invented it for the queeahhh....s

(More beatbox!)

Girl #1: What a great rap.

Girl# 2: Yeah. Whoever wrote it should be collaborating with Missy Elliot on her new album.

Girl #1: Totally.
Okay, homosexuals. It's time to have a fun Monday night. This game is called "Concentration & Determination," and I invented it last night with my favorite lil' piece. It started out riotously funny, but then it got twisted...pretty fucking fast. Scary + funny + sex = a really good game.

Everybody can play this game - boys, girls, trannies, even breeders. It's kind of a cross between "Tell Me What You're Thinking Right This Second" and "What's Grosser Than Gross?"

Ready? I know you're excited. Here we go!

How to play Concentration & Determination:

1) Grab a partner!

2) Mmkay, put easy access panties on. (Specifically, put white cotton ones on, then take a picture with your phone and send it to your friend Krista at effingdykes@gmail.com. HahaHA. Just kidding. No I'm not.) Now both of you lay down next to each other on the bed.

3) Start wankin' it together, at the same time. That means masturbating. But only yourself. Do not touch your partner!

4) Continue this step until you're both pretty close.

5) And then...one person stops masturbating and says the absolute least sexual thing they can imagine to their partner. It should go a bit like this:

Person A (furiously masturbating): Mmmmm-hmmmm...yeaaah....

Person B: Plastic T-Rex dinosaurs on a Fisher-Price schoolbus!

Person A (still rubbing): Ok, hmmm, plastic dinosaurs, put 'em up my....mmmmmm.....

Person B: Um, trout and warm Pepsi!

Person A (stops momentarily): What? (resumes) Ok, waaaaarm Pepsi, so warmmmm....

Person B: Dried snot under a toddler's nose! Defrosting the windshield! National Geographic boobs! Spaghetti and hot penis cheese! Uh...Mildew-y sponge!

Person A: (unable to continue; turning to stare) Mildew-y sponge? That's so fucking gross. (tries to resume and can't) Shit.

Person B: Mildew-y sponge! MILDEW-Y SPOOOONNNGE! OBJECTIVE: Try to make your partner lose their masturbation focus. If they can't come (even while continuously masturbating the entire time), you win.
TIP: Try to figure out what truly bothers your partner, and go with that. Food stuff is usually the grossest. SOME PEOPLE, however, have Extreme Concentration & Dedication Skillz. These people need something more distracting - more effort - from you than your average player. For instance, my favorite lil' piece, CJ, has inhuman capabilities to finish what she's started.
I find that putting a sock on my hand and making it sing the Johnny Appleseed song in a fucked-up baby voice usually secures my place in the Championship Round.
There's nothing more rewarding than winning Concentration & Dedication with just your wits and the worst image you can come up with.
There's nothing more gleefully evil than ruining what could have been a great orgasm for your partner.
I wish every night was Monday night.

You Ottawa Stop In

Hiya, homos!

Guess where I am??

Guess guess.

OkI'lltellyou. I'm in Ottawa. Ottawa, Canada. The second-coldest city in the entire world.

Now, if you read Effing Dykes with a fine-tooth comb (I know you've been printing out your favorite entries and Mod Podge-ing them over your mirror), you doubtless know that I despise Canada.

I really do.

Despising Canada is complicated. It's a whole bunch of emotions tangled up together.
It's my own Special Fury Blend comprised of:

1) scorn for people who wear Tevas with socks

2) boredom (you people have so much land. Something to look at during a 10-hour car ride would not go amiss.)

3) derision for the Canadian accent

4) irritation with French-people-who-aren't-really-French-at-all-'cause-they-live-in-Canada-for-fuck's-sake (and who will also never, never have their own country, do you hear me, Quebecois??), and

5)extreme, blind, completely justifiable, seething envy for socialized healthcare and a gun-less society.

Smug Canadian asshole bitches.

I'm here in Canada for a reason. Remember that weird job I had last year, where I travelled all the effing time? The job I love and hate? The job I swore I would never do again?

I...I signed up for another year.

A lil' bit of masochism never hurt anybody. Except you, Rihanna.

But, lezzies, there's a silver lining to this depressing news!

I travel to a different North American city every day, from now 'till May. A different city every day means educating myself about the habits and styles of dykes across the country. A different city, daily, means a different chance, daily, to slut it up with locals.

I will become a learn'd woman.

I will sniff out every gayelle in every corner of the Northern Hemiphere.

Or at least sometimes I will. On the nights I'm not ordering room service and daring myself to hit "Select" on the Adult Movies menu.

In the spirit of kicking off the working year right... My flight got in early to Ottawa last night, and I decided to find out what Ottawanese lesbians do for a fun evening. Doesn't "Ottawanese" kinda sound like a Japanese beaver? I think so, too.

Finding a place to go was difficult. Nobody at the Hilton wanted to give the "aggressive-out-of-town-dyke-stranger-asking-creepy-questions" any names of local gay haunts.

Weird.

The very swishy bell-boy was being coy with me. Undaunted, I pounced on the front desk staff. They didn't know where I should go, either. (There's nothing like being giggled at by pimpled Canadian teens in polyester pleated pants.) Online searches for "lesbian bar Ottawa" turned up nothing.
Well, crap.

Finally, I decided to go to a place called "Swizzles", because it popped up on a website called Gay Ottawa and because it had such a faggy name. I could just imagine the amount of plastic monkeys the bartender would hang off a lemontini. Oooh, Swizzles!Swizzles was on Queen Avenue.

Not even kidding.

I pushed open the doors.

Alright, Ottawa, I said. You are the motherfuckin' capital of Canada. Let's see some lesbians.

Let me set the scene for you:

Sunday night, 10 pm-ish. There are a couple of gay boys hanging around, and a few nervous straight-looking guys in suits. Typical, typical.

Dim lights, Lady Gaga playing, looks like a beer place. Couple dudes clearly in the middle of mid-life crisis, six or several very average gay men, a tranny, and one lone blond twink wandering about the room in a tight white t-shirt, very much aware that he is the best-looking, tannest, and youngest boy at Swizzles.
No women.

Well, ok, there was one woman, but she was a Sporty Dyke, and I avoid sporty dykes like the plague. This is because sporty dykes like to thump, pound, and sock other people's arms in greeting. It's not okay. Anyone punching me "playfully" better be wearing latex gloves and have a safe word.

I circled. Waiting for something better to come along, I circled the bar like a buzzard.

Half an hour went by. All the leaning with a drink and "looking cool" was too much for me.

I caved.

I had to talk to a lesbian from Ottawa! Otherwise I would fail my mission. There was still the lone sporty dyke at the bar. What I needed was an interview.

Me:(hovering weirdly in front of barstool) Hi! Um, is anybody, um, sitting here?

Lesbian From Ottawa: (smirking at the empty bar) It's full up tonight. No, sit down.

Me: I'm Krista. I'm from Chicago. Well, Seattle. And Minneapolis, too.(blushing now) Are you from Ottawa?

Lesbian From Ottawa: Yep. Born and raised. Spent some time in Chicago, though. Came back here and never left. (extends hand) Name's Monica.

Me: Whoa. It is not. Your name is Monica?

Lesbian From Ottawa: Yep.

Me: That is not possible. You're a butch! You need a butch name, like Mon-E-G. Or Monni. Or Monee-Luv. Like a gangsta!

Lesbian From Ottawa: Ha. I don't have any nicknames.

Me: What about Moan-ica? That'd be fucking cool. Get it? MOAN-ica?

Lesbian From Ottawa: I get it.

Me: What's it like being a dyke in Ottawa? What do you guys do for fun around here?

Lesbian From Ottawa: It's pretty much the same as being a lesbian everywhere else, I guess.

Me: I don't believe you, Monni-Baggs. This is Canada. Gays can get married here.

Lesbian From Ottawa: That doesn't mean we're still not outsiders.

Me: Yeah. (Pause) So what is that on your sweatshirt, anyway? A Trojan? Dirty.
Lesbian From Ottawa: It's the symbol for the Ottawa Senators.

Me: I do not understand Canadian politics.

Lesbian From Ottawa: No, uh, it's a hockey league.

The evening passed amicably enough. Monica was about 30 years my senior, but she was awfully nice and willing to let me rub my hands all over her buzzed hair.

Simple pleasures.

Ottawa Monica was great. But that's not surprising - most lesbians are great. Thaaaaat's right.

OMG here comes the love ican'tcontrolit....
D'yknow, I fucking love lesbians. I really love them. Alllllll of them. I'm like the effing Statue of Liberty - "Give me your dykes! Your cute ones! Your fatties! Give me your butch, your femme, your androgynous misfits!

Every time I see one - in an airport, on a plane, walking down the sidewalk - I feel like my heart is going to burst. My people!

I love lesbians so much I will go to a bar named "Swizzles" to find them.

In Ottawa.

In Canada.

The worst place in the world.

The Dyke Style Hall of Fame

You know things are getting out of hand when your favorite lil' piece shakes you awake, throws her credit card at your head, and snarls, "GET. SOME. NEW. FUCKING. CLOTHES." as she slams out the door on her way to school.

Well!

This may be a dream scenario for lots of y'all, but...I don't wanna get new clothes! And I didn't know things were that bad. Sometimes habits just creep up on you. Like the frog who didn't realize he was being boiled alive because the water was heated soooooo slooooooowly. He just didn't notice.

Kids, the complaint is valid. I only wear two things. And they both look the same. They're both hooker-tight blue dresses that my friend Penny made for me. I wear these dresses because they are exactly perfect and exactly what I always wanted.
I alternate these dresses; one every other day. I wear them with knee-high leather boots.

Every day.But sometimes I change it up!

Sometimes I add a scarf.

Hey.
I'm not botherin' anybody.

As a child, I watched Dead Poet's Society one too many times. I used to beg my mother to send me to boarding school out East. (Mom always said no, but this used to depress her. Where's your trump card when your kid wants to go to a same-sex militant boarding school with uniforms?)

Fuck, all I wanted was that pleated skirt.

It's great to know what you're going to wear every day!

So I would just like to know: What is so wrong with having a uniform??

• Karl Lagerfield has a uniform. He wears all black, with shades and a tie, every day.
• Kanye West has a uniform - it's called "neon shit."
• Ellen DeGeneres has a uniform. It involves poorly-chosen suits with Chuck Taylors, even though she is fifty fucking years old. (And yes, I will rip on Ellen if I damn well please. Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I automatically worship Ellen. Woman is teaching legions of American lesbians that it is okay to dress like a cheesy toddler.)
  So, I, too, have a uniform. I'll wear the same thing until it gets holes. Then I'll find something new and then wear that until it gets holes. It's like being a little kid. You've got one favorite shirt and that's it.

But now, my favorite lil' piece wants to see her bird in new feathers.
No worries, homos. I'm always bitching that people can't automatically tell I'm a lesbian, so now's my chance. I'm going to go out and buy The Definitive Lesbian Outfit, one article at a time.

Ha! It's like What Not To Wear, except ironic and with CJ's credit card. Good morning, homosexuals!

What we'll do here on Effing Dykes is build up our wardrobe slowly. Every once in awhile, we'll focus on one lesbianish article of clothing, and add it to the Dyke Style Hall of Fame. Sounds good, no?

Let's start with the head and go down.

We need to go to a skater store with CJ's Visa. Right now!

'Cause the first article we're going to feature in our Dyke Style Hall of Fame is this hat:

An obvious choice. It's called a beanie. Or, in my world, a "lesbian hat", as in "Nice lesbian hat, you little homo." It comes in lots of styles and colors, but the hat is basically the same every time. It's got a little bill that sticks out.

Little bill = gay.

How gay? So fucking gay.

This hat is such an essential part of the lesbian look that they take away your gold star if you don't have at least four of these. If you buy one and you're a straight girl, you will be gay immediately. The lust for cootchie begins with this hat! If you buy one and you're a boy, your dangle shrivels up and falls off.

If you already own this hat, why do you need to read Effing Dykes? You are clearly the Gayest Lesbian Ever. This hat is an excellent marker of lesbianism if you don't have an experienced eye. Look at all the different styles!

Just remember, all beanies lead to gayness.

CJ is going to be so pleased. At the same time we are switching up my outfits, we are educating the masses.

Rat a Tat Tat

Well well well.

Walking and looking around my new city, I'm realizing I conspicuously lack something. It's...a baby bump!!

Ew. Fuckno, homos, today we're talking about tattoos, because I appear to be the last person in my 20's who doesn't have one. I am a traitor to my generation.
I don't know ONE SINGLE PERSON in my peer group (that includes everyone I've ever met ages 21-55 and your mom) who is clean-skinned. With no ink. It's kind of weird.

Even grandpas usually have a faded blue anchor somewhere.

Almost everybody has let their best friend from 8th grade do the tiny-design-hot-needle-ink-it'll-be-really-cool-I-promise thing in their basement.

Everybody but me.

Not only that, but I don't know anything about tattoos.

Once, when I worked at the cheese counter at Whole Foods (yes), I saw this big guy with two tattooed tears trickling down his cheeks. I had never seen that before (people, I was twenty-three fucking years old, keep in mind here), and I excitedly burst out with, "Omigod, I LOVE your little tears! That's SO COOL. You look like a sad little clown, way to add drama to your life! Aggh! That's too cute!"

The man looked at me oddly.

My co-worker, Gabe, kicked me sharply behind the counter. Undaunted, I continued.
"That's rad. Tattooed tears?? Rad. How did you ever think of that??"

The big man stared at me, then said quietly, "I killed two guys. A tear for each one."

Oh.

He picked out his cheese (a questionable Spanish brie) and left.
People, this is not my fault. I was raised Mormon, I don't know about this stuff, I'm basically running a race to catch up all the time.

Did I ever tell you lezzies that? I was born a Mormon. S'truth. I stayed Mormon till I was about 20, at which point I went on a year-long study abroad to Italy and ended up, um, really studying broads.
Ha! I kill me.

Seriously, though, I slept with the entire country. And some of France.

After I came back, there was no question about being Mormon anymore. I bought a bikini. I started drinking coffee. I started relishing the way the word "Goddamn" felt in my mouth. It was beautiful.
But I still never got a tattoo. It just felt wrong. Every time I set foot in a tattoo-shop, I heard the phrase "Putting graffiti on your temple walls" in echo-chamber voice.
Old habits are hard to break. I couldn't conquer the nagging fear that, on top of being sinful, I might have really bad taste, and live to regret a tattoo.

But now, here, in 2009...

I want one.

I wanna be different like everybody else.

I want strangers to touch me and ask what my tattoos mean while I roll my eyes at my friends.

I want anybody I do sexytimes with to think I'm really deep and have hidden pain and a side of me that I don't show to anybody else.

It will all be a lie, perpetuated by my fanciful ink. I'm not deep - I'm really a shallow asshole who likes to watch America's Next Top Model in her underpants.
I've never met a dyke who didn't have tattoos. Why is that? Is it because dykes pair up at the drop of a hat? Are we, as a people, so pro-commitment that we can take a design we think is kinda neat and commit to having that design on our bodies for all time and eternity?? What if you hate it later? As a personal favor to me, I think all girls who are even sliiiiiightly toeing the line on the Kinsey scale should immediately go out and get the same tattoo. Then I would know who was gay with no problems.

That might, however, eliminate the need for a certain someone's blog, however.

Jason Is Overly Interested.

Clap your hands, say yay!

It's time for another installment of...

Jason Is Overly Interested.

Q: So, Krista, if guys are supposed to chase women and only be after one thing, 'cause it's the way we're wired, and girls are supposed to act like they hate sex and be all chaste and shit, then how do two girls EVER get together? Like, if both of you are waiting for somebody to ask you out, how does that work?

A: Aw. What an excellent fucking question.

Jason, you're a strange guy to ponder the problems of getting lesbians together, instead of just fast-forwarding to the image of two lesbians together. That's why I haven't shanked you yet - you're a thinker.

Your question, Jason, is valid. How do dykes get together??

'Cause I get how the straights pair up: The Male Pursuer asks the girl out, or the brash 'n' ballsy girl asks the chickenshit guy out. And I understand how the gay boys do it: both men are only after one thing, and so the braver of the two makes the first move. The gay boys understand each other. That's why there are still bathhouses. But women...

As the great poet Lil' Wayne says - "Damn I hate a shy bitch."

There are lots of things to consider. As a gay girl, you may see literally scads of cute girls every single day. Girls you would be honored to fuck.

But it's, um, difficult to get to that point. Lesbians spend a lot of time figuring out their next move. Even when two girls know they like each other, getting to that first date is almost painful.

Society tells women that they're not really supposed to like sex. All sorts of bad fucking juju for the girls who like to do it. But, um, we all like to do it. Soooo, when neither one of you is used to having to ask for sex or dates... who asks who out?
You, as a gayelle, have a tricky situation on your hands. It's hard to ask girls out! They might say, "Ew!" They might laugh! They might crush your barely-intact sense of worth! Aaagghhyoudon'twannaaskgirlsoutOMGit'swaytooscary!!!!
Don't be a pussy. There are three approaches you can take if you want to date girls:

1) The Passive Approach. You can be soooo attractive that everybody asks you out. Then you can just take your pick from the virtual sea of suitors. This is what several of my friends do, and it's worked spectacularly well for them. When you look like a model and/or have a weird sexual energy pulsing around your body like an aura, you never have to ask anybody out. Ever.
2) The Passive-Aggressive Approach. You can go around introducing yourself as if being gay was a religion, like the Jehovah's Witnesses. You "witness" your gayness at all times, in all places. Like this - ahem - "Hi, my name is Krista, and I'm a lesbian!" As if being a lesbian is the only thing of interest about you. This works for the young and self-involved. If you're really into passive-aggressiveness, you can also wear attach rainbow patches to every single fucking thing you own, and wait three years until a girl catches your eye on the bus. Caution: this approach annoys the shit out of everyone.
3) The Aggressive Approach. You can bite the bullet and walk up to a girl. You can be coy and say something clever, or you can do what my friend Danni does and say "I think you're really cute. Would you like to go out sometime?" all polite and shit. (Or you can do what I -I mean, total sluts- do and go, "Hey. Wanna fuck?" when you're in line for the bathroom at Pride.) Polite aggressiveness + confidence = bananas amounts of sex.

C'mon, ladies, it's not that hard. Yes, you could ask a woman out and get laughed at. Yes, you could be rejected in a painful way. You could ask a girl out and...find out she isn't gay! The horror!
But straight men deal with the same possibilty of brutal rejection every day. They just deal with it by asking out as many women as possible. It's all a game of odds. Eventually, a girl will say yes. You hear me, dykes? EVENTUALLY, A GIRL WILL SAY YES. Even if you're ugly. Even if you drive a Segway. Even if you have to use a crane to turn you over in bed and prevent sores. Keep asking. A girl will say yes. Learn to deal with rejection. Goddammit, didn't anybody read The Game?Besides me and Jason?

A Labor-Filled Weekend

Alright, shut up, shut up, you noisy hounds.

I've been moving into my little housie in Chicago and hanging curtains.

But I'm pulling my head out of my nest, and Effing Dykes is back. Yay lesbians!

Y'all can stop sending me angry emails now.

And anyway, don't you all have anything to do?

Yeah, me neither. Heh.

Let's talk laydays.

Tawnya came on the Megabus to visit me this Labor Day weekend. In case you don't know, the Megabus is a glamorous service that allows you to ride from Minneapolis to Chicago for, like, 6 bucks. It has elegant reclining seats, Arctic air-conditioning, and lots of ugly college students clutching pillows. I use the Megabus so often it's like my second home. When it's time to load that bus, boy, bitches better watch out. Me and my elbows are getting a window seat. S'truth.

All you do is pop some herbal sleepy-time pills in your mouth, and then you wake up, bewildered, seven hours later, in the city of your choice. You should try it.
Anyway, Tawnya came because I needed help. I've told you all about my problems figuring out which girls in Chicago are gay. There are so many hipsters here, it would appear (as my friend Alex so eloquently puts it) that they reproduce by spores. It's been a month since I settled here, and I still don't have a fucking clue!

I knew Tawnya would have answers for me. She would know how to tell. She's got great gaydar, and she taught me how to navigate the homo world when I was still underage and using a fake ID to dance at the burlesque club.
We spent all our time at night going to gay bars and demanding to know where the women were.

Tawnya kept bellowing, "But where are the LESBIANS?" to the cute little fags dancing with their shirts off, as if she were on an old-folks bus tour in France and wanted to make "the natives" understand by getting louder and slower.

Like this:

(pulsing techno beat)

"The LESBIANS!"

"Whaaaaaaat?"

"WHERE DO THE DYKES HANG OUT??"

"WHAAAAT? OMIGOD, THIS IS MADONNA'S NEW ONE!"

It was useless. We went to The Closet. We went to T's Bar. We went to a place called Hydrate, where my favorite little piece got eaten alive by the gay boys. They thought she was a teenage boy. And that I was her fucking fag hag.
Every time I turned around, three more shirtless, sweating men were dancing up on her butt in a line. They were licking their lips like in cartoons. (Not that I blame them - CJ really does look like a teenage boy.) The only woman in the room found Tawnya and proceeded to molest her. A Brazilian queen offered me a sniff of something out of a bottle. (I got really excited about that, btw. How 80s is that? Poppers!!) Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the woman had clipped her carabiner keychain to Tawnya's pants.

I hated to ruin everybody's fun.
I sidled up to to first guy mime-thrusting behind CJ on the dance floor.

Like a spy, I whispered in his ear, "That's a girl, you know."

"WHAAAAAT?"

"SHE'S A GIRL! BOOBIES!"

"OMIGOD EW! I MEAN SORRY!"

I did that to all of CJ's admirers. Then I found Tawnya in the corner, mouthing "Helpmehelpmehelpme" and pulled her out of the club.

We walked home in the cool night air. We had seen one lesbian all night.

"Where do you think they are?" Tawnya said mournfully. She was tottering on her heels. An excellent slutty shirt. Extreme eyeliner. All for nothing.

"They're probably all camping. It IS Labor Day weekend. They ARE fucking lesbians. Dykes looooove camping."

Tawnya refused to believe me. In her mind, the Chicago lesbians were all off at some super secret club that had go-go dancers and strippers and really butch bouncers and hot bartenders. I was clearly keeping something from her.We tried to find the girls every day. We walked around, trying to pick them out of the crowd.Is.

Isn't.
Is.

Totally isn't!

Yes, too, she is! Look at the hair!

Look at the nails, though.
Could be a pillow queen.
Could just be another straight girl. C'mon, she's straight.
Isn't.
Is.

Fuck you, I'm going to ask her.

Yeah, do it. I'm so sure you're going to just walk up to her.

Three days of this. Defeated, Tawnya packed her bags. CJ strapped them to the back of my scooter, and we prepared to take her back to Union Station, where the Megabus picks up.

As I turned the ignition, two Jeeps pulled up across the street.
Eight dykes tumbled out. Obvious lesbians. OB.VEE.US. Like, you'd hafta be blind not to know.

They set to work unloading the Jeeps. Coolers. Backpacks. Sleeping bags.

Camping.

I told you fucking so! THE LESBIANS WERE CAMPING!

Effing, effing dykes.

Riiiiiiiiiiiing!

Ok, ok, people, settle down and take your seats. Ryan! Take your seat. Annie, I see that phone out one more time, it's mine, understand?

It's time to get back to Gay Basics.

Everybody here knows what a fag hag is, don't they?

Raise your hand if you don't.

Oh, c'mon, I bet somebody doesn't know.

If you're embarrassed we can all just close our eyes.

Ok, eyes closed? Ok, who here has never heard of a fag hag? Raise your hand. Alright, and who here is still unclear about what a fag hag is?

Ok, very good. You can open your eyes.

Class, what I found out is that over half of you aren't feeling rock-solid with your definition of "fag hag."

So, what exactly is a fag hag?

Who can tell me?

Anyone?

Anyone besides Krista?

Who can tell me? A fag hag...what is that.

Anybody?

Ooh pick me. Pick me!

Aaggh pickmepickmepickme!

Thank you, sir. A fag hag is a straight girl who prefers to hang around gay men in a mutually beneficial relationship, although the relationship's power lies exclusively with the gay (or gays) in question.
Not called a hag for nothing, the fag hag is usually young (mid-twenties or less), unattractive, and/or fat. The fag hag is often awkward or unpopular with her peer group, fancies herself as being different from other girls, and is invariably single. Hanging around gay men allows the fag hag to have a circle of men in her life, thus providing her with that wonderful man-cologne smell and bristly-cheek-kissing sensation without having to fear rejection from boys that really matter.

Disclaimer: Sometimes really pretty girls become fag hags. They do this when all the other girls at school are like, so jealous of how pretty they are and they wanna hang out with cute guys who aren't gonna always be hitting on them all the time and stuff.

Every now and again, a hag falls in love with her fag. This never, um, works out.

Faghagism is symbiotic.

The girl in the fag hag relationship gets:

1) A friend who is always up for going dancing
2) A free pass into the OMG-I'm-so-alternative-and-open-minded club
3) A tireless shopping companion

4) A view into a world she would never see otherwise

5) To feel special. And her confidence bolstered by her expanding gay social circle.

The boy in the fag hag relationship gets:

1) Someone who will listen to him talk about himself incessantly

2) Someone who will...uh...listen to him talk about himself incessantly
3) A grateful semi-servant who will do his bidding
4) To throw parties and "invite all his hags"

5) A friend who is more responsible and will take his drunk ass home.

The fag hag's motives are usually influenced by a desire to be like a character in some bullshit romantic comedy or sitcom. Typical media offenders cited by fag hags are: Will and Grace, Sex and the City, My Best Friend's Wedding, and Queer As Folk.In short: Everybody wants a pet queer. How trendy!

So, straight girls who only hang out with gay boys are called fag hags.
And straight boys who usually hang with gay boys are called fag stags.

And straight people who have mostly gay friends are known as fruit flies. But what about boys (gay or straight) who only hang out with lesbians????

'Cause this happens. Way more than you'd think. You always see them at the girlie bars, looking happy and slightly out of place.

Who wouldn't want the lezzies for friends? Lesbians are cool, and some boys are drawn to tough, funny, angry girls.
We needed a name for these boys. My friend Tawnya came up with two new definitions for me:

Lesbros are the straight boys who love hanging out with lesbians. They're like brothers. You can punch them in the shoulder and invite them to the bonfire. You can ogle girls together. It's fun.

Lesbeaux are the gay men who desert their boys to chill with the dykes. They add a touch of glitter to any occasion. They want to go to drag shows and musicals and eat cheesecake and set you up with other lesbians they know. It's perfect! They're only sexually attracted to men. You're only attracted to women. It's a true platonic relationship.
There, sir. That's fag hags defined and a whole new slew of slurs for you.

I think this takes care of my participation grade for the rest of the quarter.

Blue Tags Are 50% Off Today

Being awkward has its perks. People don't ask you to go dancing.
You have a built-in excuse for not attending gallery openings.
Nobody will take you to the poetry reading because they know you'll laugh during the Really Serious Parts.

Being awkward is not, however, an all-season social pass. Sometimes, you have to interact with other humans, and the result is...a hot mess.

Take this morning. So I'm shopping at Savers, the thrift store nearest my house, and I'm in the lingerie section. I don't know how often y'all go thriftin', but I go a lot. I say, if you don't need to wash it in hot hot water before wearing it, you didn't get a good deal.
And I know an eternal truth about thrift stores:

There is always, always a creepy fat guy in the lingerie section buying giant-sized bras and lacy panties "for his wife."

No worries. You just work around him. Unless, of course, he says this:

"Hey baby."

You ignore him.

"You pretty sexy."

Too true.

And then..wait for it...

"What are you, eleven, twelve?"

Ex-CUSE me??? Instantly, I'm in Attack Mode.

I turn slowly around.

"What the fuck did you just ask me? Did you just ask me if I was ELEVEN FUCKING YEARS OLD? You fucking pedophile? Did you? 'Cause, first of all, I am 26 motherfucking years old, and second of all, I do NOT need to be dealing with some creepy-ass sweaty dude in the bra section at 10 IN THE FUCKING MORNING. Get the fuck away from me."

His eyes widen into saucers.

"Miss, I, uh...I'm really sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Oh my God. Honest, I didn't. I mean, yeah, I gave you a compliment and all, but I was asking if you were an eleven or twelve. Like, a size eleven. Cause I got a ladyfriend about your size, I mean you're sexy, but I'm shopping for my ladyfriend's birthday and all, I didn't mean like were you a kid or anything like that. You just look like you're my girl's size and I'm looking for the dress racks. Oh my God."

He scuttles away.

It's good to be me. Sluts, this post doesn't have a lot to do with being a dyke. I just needed to spread the awkwardness around.

Have a lovely morning.

2 Bdrm 1 Bath Pets OK

So, last weekend, I made the move from Minneapolis (where you can't swing a cat without hitting a lesbian) to Chicago, where cab drivers have conversations with you like this:

Cabbie: I don't know where that is. I never heard of Iowa Street.

Me: It's in the Ukrainian Village. Think West Division Street. And West Chicago Avenue.

Cabbie: (Pause) Yep. I've got nothing.

Me: Those are major streets. How about Damen? How about Augusta?

Cabbie: Like Greektown? I know where Greektown is.

Me: No, not Greektown. Ukrainian Village. By Logan Square. West from downtown. How are you a cab driver?

Cabbie: Greektown you could basically walk to from here. I mean, it would be kind of a long walk.

Me: What. the. fuck. Not Greektown. Ukrainian Village. Ukrainian Village!

Cabbie: (turning around) Hey....are you two lesbians? That's hot. Heh.

Me: Pull over. This corner's fine.

Homos, basically I'm worried. I've not spent a great deal of time in Chicago, but now it's my home. And people are staring at me and my favorite lil' piece like they've never seen lesbians before in their lives.
Also, I have a real problem now: I can't be sure who's gay.

Seriously! My gaydar is all turned around! I see cute girls every fucking minute, but they all look like lesbians to me. I need to work on Chicago dykes - are they so integrated that I can't even pick them out of a crowd here??

Every girl seems to be wearing flat shoes. Every girl has a subversive haircut. Everybody rides a bike, everybody has smart-girl glasses, everybody works at a small, indie business, and the tiny coffee shops are full of chicks with ripped tights, ordering cold press with soy milk. Apparently, I have to hit on all women, everywhere, just to even have a fighting chance of making new "friends." Fortunately, I'm up for the challenge.

All the girlies may be hiding, but I have Math on my side. My Scientific Calculations tell me that:

1. The most conservative estimate of the global gay population is 10%.(I would put it at 20% gay at least, and around 55% if you count all the people who would do you in a bathroom stall if they had a few Bacardi-and-Cokes and thought no one would ever know.) But we'll stick with 10%, for simplicity's sake, and also so we don't get our hopes up unduly.

2. There are 10 million people living in the Chicago area.

3. Therefore, there are at least 1 million Chicago homosexuals.

4. If half are girls and half are boys, that leaves 500,000 gay women in Chicago.

5. And they all hafta get some at some point. So where are the 500,000 lesbians?

500,000 women is enough to start our own city. Lesbicago. Chi-Dyke. Sapphicago. It would be fun.

Until we all died out. Then it would be a creepy ghost town.

Seriously, though, where do all these girls hang out? Why don't I see more of them?

Maybe, just maybe, I'm surrounded by them and I don't even know it.

I must adjust the lenses on my gaydar glasses.

Moving is so exciting, isn't it?

What Exactly Were the Secrets?

They were out of 30 Rock at the video store.

Out of 30 Rock.

There was no more 30 Rock. Nobody else could rent it.

Would I like to rent The Office, instead, maybe?

NO I WOULD NOT LIKE TO RENT THE FUCKING OFFICE!!!!
I WANT TINA FEY AND I WANT HER NOW!!! FUUCKKKKKKKmywholenightwasleadinguptothisfuuuuck!!

Shit.

I settled for what looked like a promising lesbian movie.

It was called The Secrets and it was about a young, sheltered Orthodox Jewish girl who asks her father if she can postpone her upcoming wedding (to a man she, she...does not love) so she can go to a women's seminary (hehehehe) in Israel. There she meets another young (hot) girl who is also chafing under the strict rules of her religion. This girl is a badass, though- she smokes cigarettes and starts arguments and has wild, unruly hair. They become fast friends and "discover" things about themselves.

Sounds good, right? All-girl boarding school, religious-boundary-breaking, uniforms, shared rooms, best friends and hidden passions....

Three-and-a-half hours later, my favorite little piece had fallen asleep with her mouth open and I was alone in the dark, determined to finish out this goddamned god-awful fucking lesbian movie where there had only been one sort-of-erotic scene the whole time.
So picture this, if you will:

2:34 a.m. - CJ is sleeping angelically, naked and adorable. I am sitting in my underpants on a futon with no lights on, arms crossed and lips pressed together in a white line, furiously composing a letter in my head to the director of The Secrets.

The honey-mustard gluten-free pretzels crunch angrily.

The letter went like this:

Dear Director of The Secrets,

This was supposed to be a lesbian movie. It was patently not a lesbian movie.

I'm having a hard time understanding how you did this. You had every advantage in the world to work with. You had a script that called for two young girls on the brink of adulthood to fall in love. You had a boarding school. You had two fucking gorgeous actresses willing to make out onscreen. (And, incidentally, where did you get these actresses? Both girls had to be fluent in Hebrew and French, be hot, be under 20, and be willing to do full-frontal in a blasphemous/sacreligious Jewish-homo movie. That must have been a very specific casting call.)

Time and time again, you let opportunities slip through your fingers. The girls could have made out when one woke up with nightmares and the other rubbed lotion onto her back. Did they make out then? They did not.

They could have had good times when they were naked in the water and first looked at each other's lithe young bodies. Did they have good times? NO. They did not. They dried off, put their clothes back on, and went back inside.

They kissed once. Once in a 3.5-hour-long-film. They came tantalizingly close thousands of times, but they actually only kissed one time. The rest was mind-fucks. However close this may have been to my first girl-on-girl experience, I hate you, as the director, for not making it better. Why didn't you take your plot and run with it? Honestly:

Everyone knows the equation for winning at the Cannes Film Festival:

Add a girl-on-girl sex scene and speak a language other than English.

You had a movie with French! It was about hot gay girls! YOU COULD HAVE SWEPT CANNES and you didn't even try. You threw your opportunity away. That's why your stupid movie didn't hit theaters. That's why you went straight to DVD. I hold you personally responsible.

I could have directed a better ending underwater with my eyes closed. And there would have boobs. Lots more boobs. You selfish dumbass.

Love,
Krista

CJ eventually opened one eye and asked why I was still awake.

Because the movie was supposed to be a lesbian movie and we were tricked! Tricked!!! Teased and tormented by hundreds of near-miss chances for gratuitous girlsex! Why can't we ever rent a dyke movie that has a predicable outcome??? All I want is to watch a good sex scene! I don't need a dramatic plot! Why don't they ever, ever make good lesbian movies??

She rolled over and slung an arm over her eyes.

"Maybe we should just rent a porn, baby," she mumbled. "Those are pretty predictable."

She was asleep again in seconds.

Oh.

Um, right.

That's what I'll do, then.

Next time they run out of 30 Rock.

You Should See the Other Guy

So last night, I'm sitting on Chinda's couch watching Norbit for the 80th time, when her dog, Blu, jumps in my lap. Blu's a skinny little pit/lab, and while I was scratching his ears, he tossed his head back and whacked his forehead against my eye, so hard that I saw stars. And when I said, "Oww, Blu, you asshole!" he didn't even look sorry.

I now have a black eye. From a dog.

It would be cool if it was from a dirty girl fight, though, right? This is only my second black eye, ever. The first happened when I was in college and living in my first apartment. My roommate, Sara, was out in the hammock, and I was in the bathroom, plucking stuff. Sara called my name suddenly - "KRISTA!"

Thinking there was an emergency, I dropped the tweezers and bolted out of the bathroom.

I misjudged where the doorframe was, though, and ran full-speed into it.

There was a horrible cracking noise, and instantly, blood started POURING out of both my nostrils, like a faucet. Stunned, I looked down, and my shirt was sopping wet - blood was pooling warmly around my bare feet. It was slow motion.

I sank to the (white-carpeted) floor.

"Sara," I croaked.

"Dude, you've got to come see this, there's some girl out here with, like, no pants on or something," she crowed from the deck .

"Sara," I whispered, crawling towards her on my hands and knees, leaving a thick blood trail.

"For real, it's like, did you forget your pants? Or is that a shirt you thought could pass for a dress? What is the issue, here?"

"SARA! FUCKING HELP ME!" I bellowed, summoning up the last of my strength.
Curling into a helpless ball, staining the carpet so badly we would later throw it away, I waited to die.

Sara came ambling in from the back deck. She took one look at me and started screaming her head off.

"OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! YOU'VE BEEN STABBED!!!! CALL 911! CALL 911!! JESUS CHRIST!!!"

I opened one eye. After feebly explaining that I had not, in fact, been stabbed, and only had a very bad nosebleed, Sara calmed down and led me to the bathroom, where she (very lovingly) sponged the crusted rivers of blood off my face. We looked in the mirror. I had two gorgeous black eyes.

Four months later, during a routine physical, I found out that my nose had been shattered; was, actually, still broken, and would probably never heal. I had no idea. I thought I just got headaches a lot.

(To this day, if you hit me in the nose exactly right, I crumple to the floor in a heap, sobbing. Btw, that's where you would aim if I was a superhero and you wanted to "take my power.")

My current black eye and the gore-fest from a college are my only experiences with what it must feel like to get in a fight. I only wish someone would try to fight with me. It's been a life-long dream.

Now, don't get me wrong. While people don't actively try to fight me, I am clumsy as fuck, and that's damaging enough. In my 26 years, I've broken:

a) 6 ribs

b) 9 toes
c) 4 fingers (the right pinkie twice, goddammit)

d) my nose
e) my right shoulder (and dislocated it, too!)
f) my arms 4 times (that's twice on the left and twice on the right)

but all through my own disregard for things like "wristguards" and "shoes with toes."

It's all so unfair. Getting in a fight should be a piece of cake for me - lesbians looooove to be in fights. They fucking love it. They look for excuses to start 'em when things are too quiet at the girlie bars. Here's the recipe for a good Dyke Fight, in case you can't find it in your copy of The Joy of Cooking:

Ingredients:

1 "ladies' night" at any club
1 new girlfriend

1 ex-girlfriend

6 sporty dykes (fresh from a game)
15 cases of Michelob Golden Light

Mix all ingredients onto a tightly-packed dance floor, adjust temperature to mid-90s, add:

1 secret affair

Tbsp. unresolved drama

Sprinkling of girls who like to fight (i.e. thugs and bike punks, but use whatever type angry girl you have on hand)

Bake (thoroughly saturated with alcohol) for 2 - 3 hours, until "Bitch, you better back the fuck off" is heard.

Enjoy your delicious Dyke Fight.

I wanna real black eye. One that didn't come from an excited puppy. If you see me, will you please chest-bump me or something?

Dental Dammit

Guess what time it is!

Um, Kelly Has A Question.
Q: "Kris, okay actually I have two questions for you. First, what do you do with dental dams? 'Cause I got a bunch at Pride, but I opened them, and they're just, like, floppy squares of latex. And second, how do lesbians have 'safe sex'? What does that even mean?"


A: Wow, Kell, those are both really good questions. For reals. I'm not even making fun of you here. Those aren't totally backwater-ignunt.

So first: What do you do with dental dams?
Ha. What don't you do with dental dams?

Dental dams are great for:

1)Putting on your face and sucking in air and looking like a scary monster

2)Cleaning mirrors

3)Rubbing on your legs to give shins a quick shine


4)Impromptu hair ties


5)Tourniquets


6)Chewing - nothing better than a wad of rubbery, fruit-flavored gum (don't swallow, kids)

7)Naked flinging wars. You get naked, set a timer, and see how many you can unwrap and fling on your partner in the time allotted. Only dental dams that stick count.

8)Sealing holes in your bike tire tube - get a lighter and melt to cover hole


9)Rain boots for your dog

10)Hilarious Kleenex when somebody is crying


11)Trashy 80s bikinis
What aren't dental dams good for? How about...sex with lesbians?
Let me be honest here, homos - I never fucking use 'em. I know they're for my own good, but I'm a dyke. I like...you know...being down there. And stuff.
You might as well put Saran-Wrap on an ice cream cone.
And it's not just me, Kelly. No dyke I've slept with has ever even offered to use a dental dam.

Or, for that matter - any kind of protection.

Hmms. Perhaps everyone I've slept with is a selfish whore.

Which leads us to your second question, Kells. How do lesbians have safe sex?

Ummm, they use gloves when they're gonna be finger-banging. They cut open a condom and spread that on a girl's crotch. They lick through plastic wrap. They make sure they don't have any open sores or hangnails on their fingers before fucking. They, ummm....they.....

they don't really do any of those things. Whoopsie.You've stumbled upon one of the major dirty secrets of the lesbian world. Some girls are having safe sex, with dental dams and gloves, but the vast fuckin' majority...aren't.

There are reasons for this. Here:

a) Girls aren't dirty like boys. Google it. It's a fact.

b) Dykes don't really suffer any consequences, besides STDs, when they have sex. We can't get pregnant, no matter how diligently we try. Sex for lesbians is not the inherently dangerous act it is for straight girls, so we tend to treat it more like what it used to be in 1969 - fun.

c) Gloves look super creepy when your partner is nekkid. Especially if they're blue or, God forbid, black.
d) We are fucking stupid.


Just because most girls aren't having safe sex doesn't mean that we shouldn't be. "Nobody does that" is a pretty shitty excuse. I myself have made a commitment to have safe sex this year with any hos I happen to pick up. A COMMITMENT, goddammit.

It's pretty sad when your New Year's resolutions get that detailed.

Mmkay, Kelly?

OMG, You're Not On It Yet?

You know how, when someone has a baby, everyone goes, "Oh, was it a boy or a girl?" right away?

Paul Reiser from Mad About You says that's because everybody has an instinctive need to keep a running tally on the world population. Like, how many boys and how many girls do we have now?Well, I have an instinctive need to keep a running tally of homosexuals. I. Must. Label. Everyone. When introduced to someone cute, I am mentally going through my Checklist of Gay Behaviors clipboard.

I then decide on the spot if the girl is queer or not, and subsequently refuse to alter my judgement about her for the rest of my life, even if told otherwise or absolutely proven wrong. (I've decided to go ahead and label this trait of mine "charming.")

Logic, you whores! I have near-perfect gaydar. If I decide a girl is a mo, then she's a mo, and there's nothing (including getting married, becoming a born-again Christian, having fuckloads of babies, or being a politician) that can be done to change my mind. Someone has to be the truth-teller! This is why Pink doesn't fool me for one second, btw.

First impressions matter.

But sometimes, I'm not 100% sure. I need more information than what I'm getting up front from a new girl.

I need Facebook.

Facebook will supply me with all the data about a woman that I could ever want. Facebook will give me the final word. Sometimes a girl isn't out publicly, but she leaves behind elephant-turd-sized clues on her page.

Q: But how do you know if a girl is a lesbian by looking at her Facebook?

A: I'm so glad you asked! It's easy.
There are three simple things to remember when stalking a woman on Facebook to find out if she's gay:

1) Look at her pictures. ALL her pictures. Don't skip a single album - even if they're titled "Chrissy's Wedding in Cancun!!" Pictures can say waaaaay more than a silly ol' promise ring ever could.

That being said...Do her friends look like big dykes? Does she hang out with any females who wear visors or men's jeans? What is she drinking in all her party pictures? (Hint: long-necked-beer = dyke. Appletini = straight girl.)

Has she ever had really short hair? Is there a recurring "best friend" who she always seems to be "jokingly" making out with? Is she sitting in an awful lot of laps?
2) Read her wall.The whole wall. Read her status updates. Look for the comments left by her friends. Dykes tend to leave short messages on wall posts, like "LOL last night was fun. When do I see u again? Tequila!" and "What doin' la8r? Im @ dogpark 6 p.m." These are secret encrypted lesbian booty calls. Pretend you're a spy during the Cold War and crack the code!

3) Overanalyze her "Info" page. Sometimes the most visible hints are...invisible. She might list herself as "In a Relationship", but does she list the person? No? A good sign. Did she skip the option to list which gender she's interested in? 'Cause look at any straight girl's page - a straight girl doesn't even think twice about writing that she's "Interested In: Men".

A hidden dyke might think she's being crafty by leaving the option off her page, but true psychotic stalkers can see right through that.

Wanna be Facebook friends?

Bush-Whacking

WAAAAAAHHGGHHHHHH!

Are you having the worst moment of your life looking at this picture I found?

I'm gonna tack it up on your ceiling, over your bed.

Today we're talking about pubes. Puuuuuubes. Bush. Carpet 'n' drapes.

I'd like to open with a story that was told to me on three separate occasions by the same person - my friend A.J. She was so traumatized that - now and forever more -when she has had even a hint of tequila, she pulls you close to her, stares hypnotically into your eyes, and whispers, "Do you wanna hear something really horrifying?"

Even though I know where the conversation is heading at that point, I never hesitate. My answer is always an unequivocal "Yes."

Because the story is that good. Here it is, in A.J.'s own words:

"So I was on a date with this cute little hippie chick. She was tiny and didn't even smell bad, and I swear to God she was actually cute, otherwise you know my rule about dating hippies. Anyway, we had a good night, we were back at her place and kind of messing around. I liked her, and we weren't playing anymore - she pulled off her shirt, and I pushed her on the bed and was unbuttoning her jeans. She kicked them off. I yank her underwear down, and - POOOF!!!! this HUGE ball of hair EXPLODES out of her panties, like a fucking airbag in a car! It literally went KA-BOOM all over my face! I swear to God my head snapped back, I should sue for fucking whiplash."

A.J. will tell you this story with slightly misty eyes, as if she's still back in that chamber of horrors....and always will be.

I want to help her but I don't know how.

My point is - pubic hair can be a real issue. If you are a carpet-muncher, it naturally makes sense that you want quality carpet.

Now, there are several looks you can sport, so let's discuss. There will be no illustrations, because you would not believe what an innocent Google search for "pubic hair fashion" pulls up.

1) The Bearcub. Often spotted on nude beaches in France and in the women's locker room of the YWCA, the Bearcub is the totally natural, black, spread-all-across-your-thighs look that women over 45 favor almost exclusively. This is terrifying, and I'm not sure what to do about it, except throw a razor at them and run screaming. The Bearcub is also seen on pregnant women (they can't reach down there to do maintenance and don't want to ask their husbands), all Germans, and featured heavily in vintage Playboy magazines from 1967-1986. I only read them for the articles.

2) The Trim-V. This is exactly what it sounds like - a thing that straight girls do that involves tiny scissors. Women who sport this look - a sort of short pubic haircut that still maintains the natural hairline - are good girls. They read Cosmo. They know they're supposed to "trim the hedges." They might even -*gasp*- shave their thighs a bit, so nothing is hanging out of their bikini. But these girls don't go any further. No experimenting for them. They've done the same thing down there since they heard that people trim pubic hair. And they'll keep it up until they die. (Possibly of boredom.)

3) The Shape. The Shape happens when a girl discovers that she can use her razor to have a little fun with her pubes. Maybe a friend tells her that she should try "The Landing Strip," a look characterized by a stripe down the middle and nothing else. Maybe her waxer (Shape girls get waxed for special occasions) gives her a heart down there, or waxes her lover's initials into the hair for Valentine's day. At home, though, this type of girl usually uses her razor, and specializes in one particular shape. My friend April has perfected the art of "The Star," and will sometimes use Manic Panic hair dye on it if she's single and has too much time on her hands.

4) Hardwood Floors. Hardwood Floors means absolutely. nothing. there. It means you either get Brazilians on a regular basis or are fucking militant with your razor. A look favored by sex addicts and strippers, Hardwood Floors = high-maintenance pornstar. Men seem to love this look, but I dunno - it kinda creeps me out.

Because who are the people who don't have pubic hair? Um, little kids.

5) The VaMullet. You know - business in the front, party down the crack. This is a look that a lot of dykes prefer. It's a cross between a Trim-V and Hardwood Floors. The VaMullet girl keeps some hair, tightly cropped, in the front, and shaves or waxes only the lips of her vadge. This is because it feels good to have it bare there, but you don't look like a little girl when you take your skivvies off. The VaMullet is my favorite look, as I don't like feeling like a pedophile, but also dislike trying to find my way through a vast meadow of pubic hair.

Why do we talk about this on Effing Dykes?

Because I want the Bearcub to stop its reign of terror. Because I wanted to tell you A.J.'s amazing story. And because I shaved this morning with a dull razor, have an alarming burn, and can think of nothing else.

Swine Flu = Cheap Hotel Rooms

I'm like an effing absentee father.
I post regularly, I'm in your life, and then - *POOF* - I just vanish for a month. It's as if I went out to get cigarettes in the middle of a conversation about dental dams and never came back.

Well, I've been busy, bitches. I finished my job. All finished with traveling all over the country every damn day. I now hate planes. And hotels. And America.

I spent a week securing a new fake job where I "edit" stuff in an office in St. Paul. I'm "editing marketing materials" as I write this. I spent a week wearing fake eyelashes in Las Vegas at the Miss Exotic World pageant. (That's like the Miss America pageant for burlesque dancers.) And I spent a week in Mexico, buying every single thing I could find that either had Jesus being gorily crucified in great detail (chunky plastic blood!) or with the Virgin of Guadalupe on it - stickers, belt buckles, t-shirts, candles, mini plastic crucifixes, and one electrifyingly elegant Guadalupe lamp made out of seashells, glass, glitter, and red whore light bulbs. It got placed in my bathroom, where it scares the shit out of me nightly. Our Lady has glowing eyes.Anyhoo.

The topic today is something I feel passionately about: Dykes who don't go out.

We're talking about this today because Pride is next week, and all the homos I haven't seen all year come out to frolic and drink and get sunburned on their tender parts. Every year, I look around in amazement at Pride and say, "Are you KIDDING me? All of these dykes live here? HERE? Well, where the FUCK have y'all been?" Because, seriously, I see the same 30 girls out at the bars and clubs. This suggests either one of two things:

1) All the lesbians are hanging out in a Secret Dyke Hangout that I haven't been invited to, or

2) they are partnered-up and curled-up on the couch all year long, trying on each other's sweatpants and Netflixing Better Than Chocolate for the 23rd time.

I'm pretty sure it's #2.

LEZFACT: When lesbians find a girlfriend, they stop going out and you never see them again.

I'm guilty, too. Just yesterday, I was crouched on the living room floor, protecting my soft organs and screaming with laughter while CJ (my favorite lil' piece) pretended to be a mosquito - jabbing me with her "finger proboscis" and demanding in a shrill, nasal voice, "Where's the sweet meat? Where's the sweet meat?"

Fucked up.

In the midst of begging the mosquito for mercy, I thought, "I've got to get out more."

It's true! Only single dykes go out, and they're only going out so they can be not-single. The bars are full of girls who just turned 21 and women who just finalized their divorce. Everybody else is at home, impregnating each other with their gay-friend-Robbie's sperm.

The sad truth is, as we all get a few years older, the pool of people who think it would be funny to stick mini firecracker rockets in your ass and then hang it out the window and light 'em is...dwindling. It's fucking boring.

But once a year, every year, all the gays in the entire city get together to wear assless chaps and get floppy and bare-titted for Dykes on Bikes. The city throbs with "I'm gay! I'm gay! There are so many of us! Isn't it wonderful? Tra la!!" for three days, and then everybody goes into hiding again. Lesbians, once more, become like endangered gazelles - such a rare sight that straight couples grip each other's arms and stage-whisper, "I think they're together, Mike."

I want to know why. Surely there must be other benefits to leaving the house. Is poontang the only reason anyone goes anywhere?

I mean, for other people, besides me?

Talk to Your Doctor

(Sad, quiet piano music)


(Different voices echoing)

"You just haven't been...yourself lately."

"You're abandoning activities you used to love."

"It's like you're not even here."

(Soothing female voiceover):

We've all been there.

But when does a habit turn into...an addiction?

At what point have you lost control? Maybe you feel confused, overwhelmed, or anxious, and you don't know where to turn.

When is it time...for help?

Lesbian Cell Phone Drama, or LCPD, is a real disease, with real symptoms, and it affects millions of lesbians across the country. You are not alone.

Night after night, you go out to socialize, but instead find yourself in the quietest corner of the bar, trying to soothe your hysterically jealous girlfriend.

Or maybe you're playing the field. You try to keep your love life under wraps, but the damn tricks keep calling you. They're obsessed. They want to be your girlfriend. You know you shouldn't answer an unknown number, but you just...can't...help it. Your friends have given up. You're always on the phone. Always having a dramatic whispered conversation. Actually drawing more attention to yourself by trying to chat privately in a public place.

Maybe you're even displaying symptoms of LCPTDD, or Lesbian Cell Phone Texting-Drama Disorder.

Your life is so dramatic. And it's not your fault.

Talk to your doctor about LCPD.

There's hope for you. You can stop this disease.

Treatments are available, ranging from downgrading your cell phone plan to refusing to speak to psycho dykes on a regular basis.
LCPD. It's time to end the drama.

Homo Haircuts

It was time for a haircut.

Everybody else was getting off the plane. I was bent over strands of my own hair, deeply engrossed in breaking off split-ends and seeing how far up I could make 'em go. After a particularly satisfying fracture, I looked up.

The entire plane was staring at me, silent.

Apparently it was my turn to get my carry-on. Anyway! today I went to MasterCuts in a strip mall in Madison. Will the glamour never stop.
The tantastic hairdresser asked me what I wanted. Here is, word-for-word, what I said:

"Mmkay, I'm kinda growing my hair out so I can put it into an obnoxious ponytail and shake it at people when I get annoyed, but I travel for a living and it's all split ends and I wanna be able to put it up but I still want to be able to have it look cool, kinda like a little kid took scissors to it, and also I have bangs as you can see, but I like to keep them too long and in my eyes, but really straight, 'cause they're sorta hipster bangs, right?"

She nodded seriously, got out her clips, and said, "So you want a trim."

Fuck.

It is really difficult to be confronted with bald evidence that you're ridiculous.

Here's the issue, though: What I really wanted was something I couldn't ask for. I wanted a Dyke Haircut.

What's a dyke haircut, you ask?

Bitch please.

Who's the gay girl in this picture? A dyke haircut is a haircut that marks you immediately as a homo, and it's always either one of two things:

1) a really, shockingly, fucktardedly-bad haircut. Often involves a flat-top, a buzz cut, or a non-ironic mullet.

2) an amazingly cool, can't-put-your-finger-on-why-it's-so-great, blindingly stylish haircut that either cost two hundred dollars in a salon with a fag named Gianni or was cut in your kitchen by your friend Gretchen who takes a blunt as payment.

There's only two kinds, folks.

Let's talk about the first type of dyke haircut first. It is bad and wrong. Perhaps you've seen this around town:

Or this: This is the type of haircut that you get when you're a lesbian and you just. don't. giveafuckanymore. It screams, "I'm a homo! I teach gym! I wear a sports bra as my regular bra and I eat pussy and it is absolutely no fun for anybody to picture that."EW.

But do not despair, sluts. As we have discussed, there is another type of dyke haircut, and it is much better. You have options if you're going to get a dyke haircut! You have potential! You could look like this:

Or this:
You have to use the word "choppy" if you want your hairfag to do good work. True dyke haircuts are gorgeous works of art and everybody copies you and then it doesn't work on anybody else. Plus they're good for helping you identify the homogirls in a crowd.

I love me a good dyke haircut. Too bad I now look like I live in the suburbs of Madison. Thanks, MasterCuts.

There is only one last thing to say about dyke haircuts, and with it, I give to you a WARNING: If you see a girl with a shaved head, do yourself a favor and stay the fuck away from her. Even if she's totally pulling it off. A girl who has a freshly-shaved head is C-R-A-Z-Y. Women shave their heads when:

1)they're newly awakened feminists taking freshman Women's Studies courses

2)they're brand-new at being gay

3)they've just gone through a major life change (ended a major relationship, moved to a new city, had an abortion)
4)they're popping pills/heavily medicated/taking drugs

If you meet a cute girl with a shaved head, just back slooooowly away, whispering in a soothing tone: "I don't have your baby, I'm not in your class, I'm not holding, I haven't seen your girlfriend. I don't have your baby, I'm not in your class, I'm not holding......"

This works like a mantra to ward off evil.

Stay away from the baldies and you'll be fine.

The Starter Lez

Last week, while in Canada with my co-worker, Drew, I announced that I was going to slit my wrists if I had to spend one more night in Winnipeg. She said:

"Yeah. The only thing Canada is famous for is being America's hat."

and then:

"Krista, if I was gonna go for the ladies, who would be a good 'Starter Lez?' "

Clearly, Drew's mind was not on the fact that I was going to commit suicide. My phone had been goddammit roaming for a week! No one cares.

Well! Good thing I always want to help a friend by recruiting her over to the dyke side.

A Starter Lez, huh?

A Starter Lez is the first woman you ever sleep with. What Drew wanted was to find the perfect 1st-time-lesbian-experience. This is not surprising - homo is the new black. Hello, Katy Perry.

All straight American females under the age of 35 who don't live under a rock and don't suck and didn't vote for McCain and watch '30 Rock' because they kinda like Tina Fey (she gives them the tinglies) want to have at least one sexy-times experience with a girl. That way you can casually toss off at parties that you're bi. And then boys will think, "I must get with her. It could happen again." And you will be popular and cool. So, everybody wants to go girl-on-girl! Yippeee! So what's the problem?

The problem, straight girls, is that you all want the same 1st-time experience, and you want it to happen naturally, without having to prowl in bars or hit up the Internet. Your 1st-time experience also has to happen with a female who is:

1) Gay or seriously bi

2) Feminine

3) Pretty

4) Not fat

5) Young

6) Very experienced (so you don't have to do anything)

7) Willing to take on a straight girl who will, at best, lie there passively and go, "ooh, wow, I've never actually seen one before, you know, up close" or, at worst, freak out, burst into tears, and puke all over the bed. (She just needed a few vodka cranberries to relax.)

This amazing lesbian who is gonna make sure you have a wonderful, safe, and hot first time with the pussy also has to be:

someone you don't know, clean, bold enough to make the first move, not a drug-user, not creepy, OK with the fact that you're using her, and willing to give you a step-by-step tutorial. And give you an orgasm.
Right?

Well, tough shit, hussies. That leaves about one lesbian left in the entire world, and she is known among all the rest of the dyke community as a "cherry-popper." The cherry popper specializes in introducing women to the joys of lesbian sex. And she is cheesy and fucking gross. Do you want to sleep with the Cherry Popper?
No?

Well, then, listen to me.

Drew, the best - the absolute best - advice I can offer someone who wants a great first-time lesbian sex experience is this:

1)Go to a dyke bar. NOT a gay bar - the only girls there will be fag hags. A genuine dyke bar. Look for the cutest, most BOYISHLY cute girl there, walk up to her, and offer to buy her drink. Then, if she accepts, you can have a conversation where you shyly tell her that you're only in town for one night, but have been having all these pervy thoughts about women lately. You'd really like to give it a try. Really. (Cue deep eye contact.) Check to see if she has a girlfriend. Buy her another drink. And then say, "I think you're cute..." and bite your lip. It's just like hitting on boys!

2)If she's into you, she'll be flattered, and lean in to give you a little kiss. Then you can have sex. If she's not into you, she may call you 'darlin' and mumble something about her friends. Either way, don't be worried. Find the next-most-cute-dykey-looking-girl in the bar.

3)Repeat.

Easy peasey.

Now why, Drew, do I recommend finding a BOYISHLY cute girl instead of your feminine fantasy?

Because a boyish-dyke is waaaaaaay more likely to actually be gay. And a gay girl will know her way around your body. (By far the most important factor in your evening.) And she'll be interested in getting another notch on her bedpost. And be unable to say no to a pretty girl who is heavily hitting on her in a bar where all her friends are watching.
Forget any girls in the bar who look like you. These girls are also looking for their 1st-time lesbian experience.
Selfish bitches.

Social Work

I don't believe in this nonsense about people being a product of their environments. I'm a product of my hormones, and I have proof.
Last night, while walking down the long-ass "K" corridor in the Chicago O'Hare airport, I saw a pretty girl. A reeeeeeeally pretty girl. She was petite, had irritatingly-perfect shiny black hair, and was just sitting there, all alone, waiting for her plane. So lonely.

We locked eyes.
And then she smiled. She was just being friendly, but still - a big smile.

WOW. It was like God smiling - her face split open like the sun and she had more perfect white teeth than any mortal has. So beautiful.

I tripped.
I tripped like a 14-year-old boy with acne and braces. I tripped on my own feet and promptly fell on my ass, knocking down my roller bag and causing the guy behind me to hop over it with a squeal like a little girl.

Now, I'm a blusher, because I happen to be goddammit Caucasian and blond, and my face was blazing. I looked up at the pretty girl - she saw the whole thing go down, and she was definitely trying not to laugh.

I picked myself up with great dignity, refused to glance back at Hot Girl, and went to drown my sorrows at Cinnabon. (Hello, you delicious Caramel Pecanbon. You love me just the way I am, don't you?)Didn't you always figure that, at some point, you would outgrow this kind of shit? You would become suave, cool, and collected, and girls would fling themselves at you. At least that's what I was counting on.

This is what I pictured happening to me on a daily basis when I grew up: And the reality is that I can't even function in a public place if there happens to be even one cute female in the immediate vicinity. I stammer and my ears turn red and I trip. And there's no growing out of it.

This Beat Be Bumpin' Bumpin'

Question: If you piss yourself laughing, is it because you...

a) are old,
b) should really be doing your Kegels,
c) mustn't let any trick pound you that hard again
or
d) have been confronted with a women's drum circle in broad daylight?

Morning! I wanted to write about dykes who dress their helpless toddlers in political t-shirts, but it would seem I cannot go on until I talk about this, instead:

Lesbians and drum circles.

Happy Wednesday.

I was returning from yet another Craigslist "date" near the Space Needle when I saw the sign: Seattle Rhythm Festival! As I was reading all about it, I smacked into a tall, skinny, butch dyke wearing Tevas and cargo shorts. She had a shaved head, glasses, and one long, dangly earring. She said, "Are you going to the festival?"

Well! I wasn't going before, but now I was. Research!

LEZFACT: If you see one lesbian in public, you know that there's a hundred in the near vicinity.

I followed her.

And what did my eyes behold? How about...a thousand white, hippie-ish dykes sitting in circles and drumming?
Oh hell no. In case you don't already know this, white lesbians with bongo drums are my idea of Hell. Usually, if I hear any kind of drumming in the city, I turn around and go the opposite direction. There are a few reasons for this:

1) I hate hippies. It's like sleeping with a homeless person, except you get to hear about "what an amazing, amazing trip" they just took to the Dakota Badlands.
2) The only lesbians that like drum circles look like her: 3) I get embarrassed for my people. I know there are cliches about lesbians, but for God's sake - do you have to re-enact them like some fat lady with 6 cats and a gauzy skirt, reeking of patchouli and hopping around to bongos in the heat at the Michigan Womyn's Festival? Do you???

Please, you fucking homos! Try and give us dykes a good name! We have a hard enough time as it is. Nobody believes there are fashionable and cool lesbians because they have seen enough lesbians in drum circles to know better.

I stayed at the Seattle Rhythm Festival for 15 loooooooong minutes.

One group invited me to "join in." They meant dance.

I screamed like a horse that's been shot and ran away.

Was there any other alternative?

Unhealthy Body Issues

On Your Daily To-Do List: Jillian Michaels. The Lady Bitch trainer on "The Biggest Loser" (aka my standing Tuesday night appointment.)

Can we talk?

Mmkay, I need to talk about the Unhealthiest Body Issue there is: My absolutely CRUSHING obsession with Jillian Michaels's body.

God this woman is an evil dyke ho. And I fucking love her.
She screams, "Do you want to be a loser forever?! DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!! Aren't you tired of being fat? Aren't you tired of not feeling worthy??? Are you mad yet? ARE YOU MAD YET??? Take it out on me! Hit me! Be mad!! Get fucking angry!!" and "What are you fucking scared of?? Succeeding?" about an inch away from her sweating clients' faces.

She makes fun of people. She kicks major ass. She says things like, "I canNOT do this for you. Do it! Push it! Harder!! (Oh, Jillian!)YOU are in charge of YOURSELF!!!"

She is a tiny, scary motherfucker.

She works her group into the ground and thinks it's funny when they cry. She is a fucking sadist, and she gets this nasty gleam in her eye as she announces, "Today we don't quit until my whole team is either dead or wishing they were."The absolute best is when Jillian has just drawn blood, injured somebody, or ripped their self-esteem open so badly that they try to walk off the show. That's when Jillian suddenly becomes a gentle dove, cradling their head in her lap and cooing, "Baby, baby, baby, are you hurt? Tell me where it hurts, baby."

What I would give to have my head in her lap.

She's not even my type! What is wrong with me? The minute Jillian starts getting nasty, "The Biggest Loser" turns into my own personal porno.
I love Tuesday night.

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Dykes on Bikes

Congratulate me, queers and wannabees.

After three whole years of riding my adorable orange scooter (with glitter flames!) illegally....

I finally got my motorcycle license!!

I am now officially The Gayest Girl on the Planet.

This begs the question: What is with lesbians and motorcycles?
Why are we so obsessed? Why are there 'Dykes on Bikes' but no '20-Something Career Girls on Bikes'? No 'Homemakers on Harleys'? No 'Moms on Motos'?

Why just lesbians?

I've been giving this some thought. And my hypothesis is: Everyone else is stupid. Motorcycles (and scooters) fucking rule!

In the words of the always-eloquent CJ Mace: "Doesn't everyone like powerful vibrating machines between their thighs?"

There are some awfully good things about having a bike. Girls giggle and ask you for rides. I get to say, "You have to hold on really tight, mmkay?" and then sometimes breast-fondling happens! If you have a bike, you can park anywhere you please, and insurance costs $124...for the whole year. Gas costs nothing, since it gets 85 mph, and you get to carry a helmet around with you and look really cool and Euro and shit. Why wouldn't you want one?

You can even train your cross-dressing German shepherd puppy Charlie to ride on the scooter with you. If you're really lucky. Girls, why are so many of you riding bitch? Or not at all?

From what I've seen, it would appear that the only permissible place for a straight girl to ride on a motorcycle is on the back, clinging to her boyfriend like a spider monkey.

Get your own bike! C'mon it's fun. You can talk to old guys about how many CCs you've got. You can peel out from the dyke bar and sneer at the pathetic lezzies who don't have a bike. My scooter is really tiny, but I still rev my engine like a frat boy at other cars, hoping to race them.

I also, um, dress to match my scooter. There I said it!

Everybody go get a motorcycle or a scooter. Like immediately. Then we can form a gang.

I get to be Gang Boss.

Um, Kelly Has A Question

Uh oh. Brace yourselves, homos!

Um, Kelly Has A Question:

Q: "Krista, do lesbians have like, really freaky fetishes? I mean, I don't have any fetishes. Ok, diamonds. But do lesbians have extreme fetishes like guys do? Or is being gay their main fetish?"

A: Christ in a nightie. What a question.

Kelly, because lesbians are people and not rare endangered manatee babies, we have fetishes just like everybody else. And being gay is not a fetish, dumbass. That's like me saying you're a kinky motherfucker for letting men slip one in. Now, I personally don't know any girlies who like getting shat on or get off on wearing diapers, but I know PLENNNNNNTY of chicks who absolutely fucking adore:

getting spanked, getting bitten, getting smacked around during sex(ahem), being fisted, talking dirty, bloodalingus, BDSM, light bondage, piercings, tattoos, strap-ons, anal sex, vampire stories(ahem ahem), fancy lingerie, leather, motorcycles, getting choked, feet, uniforms(Shannonifyou'rereadingthiscallmethatwasfun), Republicans, trannies, elaborate role-playing, little tiny girls, big fat girls, blondes only, Asians only, MILFs, etc. etc. etc. Just like other people. Kells, I can't speak for all of us queer girls, but c'mon - all people who like sex have something they especially like during sexy times.

Or, in my case, any time at all. Super sluts can't keep their fetishes confined to the bedroom! Now, I'm basically attracted to Anybody Female, but there's only two lil' fetishes in my case that are sure-fire, fail-proof, always-gonna-work turn-ons. I'll tell you what they are, because they're odd, and I like to overshare:

Krista's Main Two Fetishes:
1) White cotton underpants. Brand-new. Extremely white. Little teeny boyshorts, classic bikinis, boxers, men's briefs, hipsters, g-strings, thongs, even high-waisters. (The American Apparel website is bookmarked on my computer for a reason.) As long as they're white, as long as they're cotton, I will be at your fucking mercy. I don't care. I just love them. Not on me, only on you. Prance around my house wearing nothing but white underpants! Wear them next to me and deny me access! White goddammit underpants will be the death of me. I once followed a drag queen all around The Gay 90's until bar close, just because she was dressed like Gwen Stefani in "Underneath It All." I didn't even care that she had a dick. Whiiiiiite underpants. Just so fucking wrong.

2) Don't gag, but - armpit hair on girls. Yesyesi'mafuckingdykegetoverit. Before you puke, let me explain. Only a very few girls can pull this off. In order for me to be sexually attracted to some girl's armpits, she has to be: 1) really fit, 2) otherwise well-groomed, and 3) have silky armpit hair. Silky is key. If it looks sleek, it looks like fur, and then it makes me think, "Ooh, she's an animal! Rawr! What if she bites me?"
See the armpit hair? It takes ol' Ani here from "Meh" to "Holy Shit."

So there you go, Kelly. You like diamonds, I like a cute ass in white underpants. Both fetishes, in their own fucked-up way.Everybody has fetishes. The End.

Mmkay, Kelly?

Gimme Gimme More

Sometimes, something happens to you, and it's so bad, you can't even really process it yet. It could take days to realize what has occurred; weeks to understand the implications; years to finally talk about it.

I am breaking the silence.

I went to the Britney Spears concert on Thursday.

In a party bus.

With 17 sorority girls from Pi Beta Phi.

Seriously.

Did you know that party buses have built-in stripper poles?
Well, they do.

Having never been in prolonged contact with sorority girls, I learned a number of things pretty quick. Among these knowledge nuggets:

1) I should have been in a sorority.

2) Sorority girls dance like Iowa truck-stop teenage hookers.

3) My "eyes are really pretty, like so blue, but they would look a lot better, like stand out more" if I went tanning.

4) Everyone can identify with the words to Beyonce's "Single Ladies."

It took two hours to drive to the Tacoma Dome. I was loving the novelty - 17 girls grinding on each other, wasted on Grey Goose! 17 girls competing to see who could do the best dance on the pole while we were stuck in traffic! 17 girls dressed in various stages of Britney's career - naughty schoolgirl to current fuck-up! It was all so new.

And then the coup de grace: Britney!

Without question, the worst concert I have ever been to. I was sitting next to the faggiest boy in Seattle, and spent most of the concert watching to see his body go 'splat' if he hurled himself over the railing in his excitement.
Britney spent the majority of her stage time getting picked up and moved by her troop of male slaves. I played "Spot the Prostitot" and "Find Anybody Black" until the lip-syncing ended.

This post has nothing to do with lesbians.

I think the scent of 10,000 straight girls wearing Bath & Body Works' "Country Apple" scared my gaydar shitless and sent it into hiding.

Maybe when I recover, we'll talk dykes.

But Mr. Hall, I Was Surfing the Crimson Wave!

Shit.

For a long time, I thought I was carrying the Christ child in my uterus.

I haven't had my period in two years.

Well, today I got it. Fuuuuuuuck. For a split second,I wondered if I was hemorrhaging.

I literally had no idea what was happening.

To make a long story short, my period was all effed because I donated my eggs six times in a row to pay for college.

Quick answers to your Egg Donation Questions:

1) No it didn't hurt.

2) Yes I'm okay with having children in the world with my genes.

3) $5000 each time. Six cycles x $5000 = College Education.



It turned out that the real payback for donating eggs was that my period just...kinda...vanished. The Crotch Doc said it was fine, and that it would come back in its own due time. Or maybe never at all. Since I don't want kids, um, EVERINAMILLIONFUCKINGYEARS, think how wonderful my life was! No period, even at all! No cramps, no expensive fucking tampons, no PMS, no bleeding through my favorite Seduction Underpants. It was like being a dude with tits! Sex whenever!

The Downside: I developed a totally unlesbionic, politically-incorrect aversion to doing it with anybody on HER period. Not good. I know it's all part of the beauty and mystery of females, how we're all connected to the moon and all that bullshit, but my life was better without monthly bleeding. I started getting spoiled, annoyed with my favorite little piece when she was on her period (again!!!) thinking, "Why can't she be all clean and neat like me?"

I had forgotten what it meant to be a woman. One that sleeps with other women.

I was turning into a guy. I would hit it if it was bleeding, but it kinda grossed me out.
Don't get me wrong - if there is sex to be had, I'm there. I can soldier through a little extra red lube if it means getting laid. But I can't...um, put my face down there. Even at all. And lots of girls can. Lots of girls. But eating a girl out when she's on her period always puts this picture into my head during sex:
Mmmm. Tawnya says that her Slavic grandma told her to put menstrual blood in the food she cooks for her lovers to keep them faithful. It's supposed to be an aphrodisiac. (She's done this. I am not even fucking kidding.) So if you eat out a girl on her period, will you have true love forever? I think yes!

Unless you get a big clot between your teeth.

I don't think I'm gonna risk it.

Ground-and-Vagina-Breaking News

Some people are real reporters.

While I'm sitting on my ass, wearing "business causal" outfits and pretending to work, some people are out on the streets, getting the dirt, sniffing out facts.

Chinda is one of these true journalists.

Yesterday, Chinda texted me an urgent message:

"Have you ever heard of a Feeldoe? It's some kind of lesbian sex toy. Deena(Chinda'sbestfriendwhohappenstobeinprisonrightnow) says all the girls in lockup are talking about it."

WELL!

First of all: UmNo. I've never heard of a Feeldoe.

And secondly: I'm so jealous of Chinda's friend in Lady Prison. Right? Lucky bitch. All of my daydreams eventually involve getting locked up in the workhouse with hundreds of women who use their aggression to do pushups all day.

A Feeldoe?

EMERGENCY GOOGLE!!!!

Here's what I came up with. Look at this mofo!

You know what you do with this shit? One girl sticks the bulby-thing in, and the other girl rides the long end! Go here for the gory details - http://www.feeldoe.com/

This could be the end of the strap-on! Simple in theory, revolutionary in design.

Don't panic, homos. Read on!

Direct from the Feeldoe website:

Q:"Will it really stay on without straps?"

A:"Ma'am, there really isn't a polite way to ask this: Have you ever had a tampon just fall out? Women are naturally retentive. Hold the saddle with your thighs for more support while your muscle groups get used to it, and enjoy some missionary style practice before trying the more athletic positions."

Hmmm. I don't know about you all, but my "naturally retentive" vadge walls may not take kindly to getting yanked the fuck out while some bitch is having her fun.

I still had questions. I needed answers. And just as my head actually started exploding, Chinda called to tell me she's done a little research of her own!

She talked with a stud in Washington, D.C. We'll call her Dee. Dee actually owns the Feeldoe. Trendsetter!

Below are accurate snippets of their magnificent conversation.

Dee says:

"You have to have major pussy control. It's not like it stays in with no work on your end - you're more like clenching your legs together while the other girl rides it. It ain't easy, and it's more of a thigh rub for you."

The website says that practice makes perfect, but Dee snorted in derision.

She continued:

"The Feeldoe gives you more coochie grinding than anything else. It was a good thought, but too pricey. I've played with it a bit, but the most action the Feeldoe has seen is my closet."

Thanks, Dee. Thanks, Chinda. It's good that someone out there is watching out for my interests. I had my finger poised over the "Order Now" button on the Feeldoe website, but now I'm gonna wait 'till I sleep with someone who has one and then softly tuck it into my bag when she goes pee.

In Search of Kindred Spirits

What if I pass out? What if I actually pass the fuck out from laughing too hard?

Are you ready for the best lesbian personals ad I've ever seen?

I'm not sure if you are.

You couldn't even make this shit up.

Here you go, homos!

"In Search of Kindred Spirits"

"Hi! *HUG* Let's meet for lunch & maybe go to a park where we can take a walk afterward. Other ideas are once we get to know each other we could hold hands & watch Tori Amos DVD's & Bjork videos, eat Kettle Corn, & cuddle. If you know how to cook maybe we could make some meals together... I'd also love to work out together. It has been years since I've been with a woman; I miss it SO much! I'm STD-free. It is important to me to stay that way. I'd like to play music, dance with you, kiss, laugh, & explore spirituality together. If you'd like to assist me in de-cluttering my apartment (I'm a packrat) I can give you a massage in exchange (I used to be a massage therapist)! Non-smoker a must. Believer in faeries a plus. "

Jesus. H. Christ on a bike.
This woman is the reason straight people make fun of lesbians! Hell, she's the reason I make fun of lesbians.

She's the answer to every question!
Go on, try it.

"Should we have sex?"
-"We could eat Kettle Corn, & cuddle."

"What am I going to do on Tuesday night?"
-"Assist me in de-cluttering my apartment (I'm a packrat)!"

"What are the important things in life?"
-"Non-smoker a must. Believer in faeries a plus."

"What do you want to do for your birthday?"
-"We could kiss, laugh, & explore spirituality together."

"Gimme the remote. What do you want to watch?"
-"Tori Amos DVD's & Bjork videos."





I desperately want to meet this woman.
Faerie-believing packrat-lady, where are you?? Please contact me immediately!


You'll know me when we meet -I'm the embodiment of every dyke stereotype you've ever heard. I have 11 cats(aren't kitties magical?), love snuggling with sweatpants on, never go out, worship crystals, and want to talk about our relationship until one of us pukes. I want to marry you! I, too, love Tori Amos! I, too, love Kettle Corn!


We're made for one another. *HUG*

Today's topic is no joke, everybody. It is for serious. I need to talk about Lesbian Overload.

Fact:

On Saturday night, I was in Minneapolis, and I went to a dyke function called Boobie Trap. Cute, right?

It had all the makings of a good night - it was at a leatherfag-bar called 'The Bolt', my best friend was going to perform, and I had a seriously shiny new clip-on blond ponytail, fresh from Walgreens. I couldn't wait. All day I talked about Boobie Trap - what was I gonna wear? who was dating whom? how many drinks until Mea takes her clothes off on the dance floor?

And then we got there and promptly left.

I mean, we got our I.D.s checked, we paid our money, and we walked downstairs into the club, but...

I took one look into that dimly-lit, crowded bar, and I Absolutely. Fucking. Panicked.

LESBIAN OVERLOAD!!!!!!!

There were girls everywhere! Making out against the walls! Grabbing the hot bartender's ass! Oogling the mostly-naked go-go dancers! Dancing in throbbing groups, pressing up against each other on the dance floor, shoving for drinks, fucking in the bathroom...all the things that make a lezzie-night great.

And I had to leave.

Fact: Lesbian Overload occurs when there is so much estrogen packed into a small amount of space that the air tastes faintly of sweat and vadge. Hundreds and hundreds of women, all of them hunting for springtime sex. A bitch couldn't even breathe without getting her period!

Lesbian Overload can do crazy shit to your genetic makeup. It can, among other things, give you the shakes, activate your 'flight-or-fight' survival instincts, force you to drink three Long Island iced-teas and then text your ex, or cause you to think you look good doing the Electric Slide in a sports bra. This has been documented by scientists.

Anyway! with me, when it strikes, Lesbian Overload sends an urgent message to my nerves that's a bit like this:

Brain: "Krista, these dykes are going to use up all the oxygen and then you'll DIIIIIIIEE!! Get the fuck out while you can!"

Me: But there are strippers.

Brain: "RUUUUUUUUUUUUUNN!"

I'm so disappointed in myself. I wanted to stay - one go-go dancer could put her leg all the way behind her head. Is this the beginning of something I need to take pills for?

On Your Daily TO - DO List:

Katherine Moennig

Katherine Moennig.

A.k.a. Krista's Unhealthy Dyke-Celebrity Obsession.

Notice the prominent hipbones.  Let me just cut my wrists open on those.

She plays Shane on the L-Word. The L-Word is a TV show on Showtime about lezzies that you should be goddammit TiVo-ing. Netflix that shit!

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Jason Is Overly Interested.

Morning, all y'all! This is Jason. Don't be alarmed.

Jason is the first straight male I've made friends with in about 3 years. He managed this incredible feat by being unbelievably, breathtakingly crass. Jason shocks me.

He is also the one person I know who can be counted upon to say EXACTLY what he's thinking.

Doesn't have a filter, this boy. If he's thinking it, it's coming out of his mouth at the same time. Now, this can be fun, but it can also make easily-offended folks (read: boring people) upset. Here are some choice, direct quotes from Jason that I overheard at a single party:

1) "You're pretty. And a little fat. But I like that. A tummy is really like a third tit."

2) "Wow. You're not funny. Even at all."

3) "Hey, you DO look like a dude!"

4) "What? I wasn't listening. I was looking at your boobs."


He's a hero of mine.
Anyway! Jason loves this blog, and now he's going to contribute on a regular basis. Jason is going to text me all the filthy straight-boy questions about lesbians he's been trying not to ask, and we're going to read them here on Effing Dykes!

So, Jason Is Overly Interested:

Q: "Krista, when I have sex, it's like 2 to 10 minutes where we're actually doin' it. How do lesbians know when they've had sex?"

A: Jason, that's a really fucking good question. Problem is, I don't actually know the answer - it's all relative. Lots of things lesbians do in bed count as sex. Some girls think that anything you do in bed counts as sex. But, please - where do you draw the line? Kissing? Spooning? Um, no.


Plenty of dykes think you've had sex if fingers enter the vagina at any time. But what if you just touch each other and don't go in? Hmmm.

Another popular definition is "you've had sex if she went down on you." 'Cause lesbians love to eat pussy, right? But that definition is stupid, especially if you're a picky-ass bitch who won't put her mouth anywhere near someone's crotch for the first few fucktimes. (soi'maprudesofuckingsueme. I don't eat pussy until we're in a relationship. It's too personal for hookups.)


The only actual answer I can give you, Jason, is: Lesbians have had sex if they think they did. There's no gold standard, like you straights with your 'dick-up-the-vadge.' Weird, right? And this can be tricky. For example - after getting fingerbanged in a bar bathroom at the age of 18, I was elated. I had finally had lesbian sex!

.........or had I?
Is this not complicated? Every lezzie's definition of sex is different. My definition, for future reference, is: Fingers, oral, or toys - all of it is sex.


And Jason? Even if queer girls don't have cocks, we all still know when sex is finished. And it ain't after no 2 to 10 minutes.

Happy, perv?

You know you're a trashy hooker when you're in a cab, hooch-dress on, coffee in hand, at 10:30 on a Saturday morning, on your way to meet a new Craigslist "friend."

I'm just sayin'.

Anyway! the point is, while in a very compromising position, I learned some important information on how to spot Undercover Lesbians when you're in the deep South. My new friend was from Texas, and I had gaydar questions for her. I did a little stark-naked (okaywejustrolledmydressup) reporting. Working while screwing! I'm a workaholic. I should get a tax write-off for this shit.

Here's what I learned:

Apparently, it's quite difficult to determine who's a muffdiver in Texas and who isn't. And you can get your ass kicked for asking. So Texas lesbians have a saying that they use to police themselves when they're about to ask a cute farmgirl out:

"Is she a lesbian, or is she an equestrian?"

Hee. Now, this question is amazing, because it sums up the exact problem with girlie gaydar in the South - lots of girls look gay because they work on farms with horses all day, but very few of them are.

Doesn't she look corn-fed and wholesome? Doesn't she look like she wants to let her hair out of that bun and make sweet love to you? Look at her stroking that horse's flank. That could be your ass.
Dykes are genetically hard-wired to love women who are good at shit like camping. Therefore they cannot resist an outdoorsy lil' Horse Girl. They have to ask her out - can't help it.

But they must try not to, or else they'll be clubbed to death by that girl's 14 born-again Baptist brothers.

However, I do see how you might get confused about what's what. In this dressage picture, we have all the trappings of fun-times lezzie role-playing: the riding crop, the menswear-styled jacket, the evil sneer, the knee-high leather boots. But do not be fooled - this girl is an equestrian.
Not a lesbian.

Damn.

It is hard to tell the difference! I didn't even know the lesbian-or-equestrian thing was an issue until I got home and did some Emergency Googling. My friend was right - farmgirls look like freckled, fresh-faced dykes.
Why can't we just go back to the 80's, when an earring in the right ear was the only signal we needed?

Um, Kelly Has A Question

Everyone, meet Kelly.

Kelly is The Straightest Girl I Know.

For serious. Kelly is so, so, unbelievably straight. She subscribes to Cosmo. She thinks "Legally Blonde 2" was a good movie. She owns 37 tubes of identical pink lip gloss. She was on the Bay Port Pom Pom squad. She knows who won "The Bachelor." She has a pink, heart-shaped picture frame around a picture of her boyfriend. She loooooves boys - all boys. She obsesses over makeup and her perfect dream day involves candy, sexwithaman, manicures, a massage, and the rest of the day spent trying out eyeshadow shades at Sephora. The absolute straightest girl I have ever met.
She's one of my favorite people.

Anyway! Kelly has done us a favor here at Effing Dykes. She has agreed to write down some of the more appalling straight-girl questions she has asked me, over the years, about being a lesbian. All for the benefit of Education.

So, Um, Kelly Has A Question:

Q: "Krista, don't all lesbians just really kind of want a dick? Is that why they like dildos?"

A: Kelly, what the fuck. Ten points for honesty, though - I can see how this is going to help many straight people understand dykes better.

Ok, first of all, NO. All lesbians do not want a dick. I can think of only one lesbian I know who wants a penis, and she just wants one so she can pee on things. I myself want nothing to do with a dong - they're weird, they squirt stuff that stains, they're unpredictable, and they're needy. I don't approve. It would maybe be fun to fuck a girl with one, but I can do that already!

I do, however, like dildos, just like you said. But...I don't think a dildo is a penis. It is a silicone sex toy - kind of hard to confuse with something that is actually growing and attached to a person. Bite a penis, the boy goes, "Ow." Bite a dildo, it keeps its fucking mouth shut. Dildos are better.

Dildos are better because they give a girl the ability to fuck another girl hands-free with a strap-on. Dildos are better because they cannot spray cum, unexpectedly, in your eye. Dildos are better because you can have more than one without getting called a whore. More than one man? Whore. More than one dildo? Lucky!

And the assortment you can choose from! All different sizes! And shapes and colors! Can you get a boy that comes with a hot-pink vibrating penis? No. Can you buy a dildo shaped like President Obama that has multicolored glitter twinkling all over its surface? Yes. Get it? Lesbians like dildos because it feels good to have something in there. But we don't want a guy to be attached. Dykes are kind of selfish that way - we want all of the pleasure of penis-sex without having to do the things that would ordinarily guarantee us that pleasure - i.e. wash someone else's dishes every goddamned day, fake an orgasm, or pretend we care when our boyfriend has a hard day at work.

Because I'm not gonna lie. Sex with a man feels good. Penises feel good. But men don't turn me on. Women do. So what should a girl who is turned on by women and likes the feel of penises do? Umm, how about get a dildo and call it a day?

Mmmkay, Kelly?

Storytime!

Once upon a time (okaylastseptember) there was a dyke named Krista.

I lived, at the time, in an apartment that was next door to a private Catholic school. One day, as I was driving home from work in my glamorous Ford Escort hatchback, I saw her: the vision of my high-school Catholic fantasies. She was walking along, her skirt rolled too high, wearing over-the-knee white socks and blowing a pink chewing-gum bubble. She was tall - she had long, honey-colored hair blowing back in the breeze, a sweater falling off one arm, and one of her shoelaces was untied. Adorable.

Knowing, as I do, that all Catholic schoolgirls make out with one another, I did what any suave lesbian would do - I drove around the block again. Stalkers fall in love, too!

There she was again. God, she was perfect! She even walked like a dyke. If only she wasn't sixteen! Aaaagh. Stupid morals-getting-in-the-way.

I drove home, foaming at the mouth. I couldn't wait to tell my roommate, Tawnya, about my discovery: there were hot girls at St. Mark's, and our window looked out onto their playing field! I began picturing long afternoons involving me, Tawnya, chai, and Volleyball Tryouts.

I took another look at the St. Mark's sign as I parked. And that's when I saw it: "St. Mark's - Strengthening Hearts, Minds, and Spirits. Pre-K through 8th."

Pre-K through 8TH GRADE???!!!?? Ohhhhh I was going to Hell. Oh, Jesus. I HAD BEEN FANTASIZING ABOUT A 13-YEAR-OLD!

This just goes to show that not all sex offenders need to register.

I was actually really embarrassed about this whole episode - I refused to even look at St. Mark's for about six months. Tawnya brings this story up at every possible opportunity.

I realize that not everyone has as many problems with "boundaries" as I do, but...Has anyone else ever been tricked? Did you ever go for a baby dyke who snuck into the club with a fake I.D.?

Or are these the warning signs of impending cougar status?

Celebrilezzies??

Hi kids!
Let's play Spot The Homo!

Find the gay girl in this picture. (Hint: there's only one.)


Point to her with your finger.

The girl you're pointing at is probably the only one that likes it when you poke her with your finger.
Attention Samantha Ronson! Did you know your girlfriend is straight?
'Cause everyone else knows.


Aww, fuckit. I can't stand it. I can't stand it! I HAVE to talk about Lindsay Lohan and her girlfriend Samantha. I'm sorry, but I just can't hold it in anymore. It's like trying to hold in a fart for so long that your ears start bleeding.

Lindsay Lohan is gay the way that Burger King sells "flame-broiled" burgers. Yeah effing right!

After eight or nine bad movies, Lindsay has figured out she can't act. She needed a new hook! And what better way to set tongues a-waggin' than to pick up a starving dyke DJ and force her into stardom by giving her Celebriherpes?


Now, my heart goes out to Sam because I have a soft spot for anorexic-boi types. It's because I'm a sick fuck. The hungrier they look, the more I wanna feed 'em. Bring on the clavicle bones!





Now, from just the few photos posted here, we have conclusive evidence that Sam is a True Gay. Observe her classic poses for the camera - the cocky peace sign; the upturned amused look; combined with the "aggressive confidence/no actual confidence" manner so peculiar to bois? Gay. Gaaaay.

There's not an ounce of dyke sass coming from Linds. She's so femmy she's....um, straight.

Here's another fun game: Try to picture Lindsay and Sam having sex. Can you do it? I can. Do you hear that funny noise? That's their hipbones grinding each other into dust!
Omigod, do you think when they're alone, they like, borrow each other's clothes and stuff? That would be soooo cool!

That's why I would date girls.

DYKE STYLE UPDATE!!

Hypothetical Situation:

The apartment next to you has been vacant for weeks. Today, as you come home from work, SHE is hauling boxes up the stairs. Your hot, sweating, thin-tank-top-wearing, hair-falling-out-of-her-ponytail-and-brushing-fetchingly-against-her-neck, GORGEOUS new neighbor. Thank you, Lord Ganesh.

She seems unaware that her shirt is slightly see-through. She smiles at you.

A muscled, cheerful man is helping her move in. (Fuck.)

Let's see what we're working with.


She has: shoulder-length hair, tiiiiight jeans, mascara, keys carabiner-clipped to her belt loop, a probable boyfriend, an leather satchel, one of those stupid headband-elastic things, and baby-blue New Balance sneakers on.

What is she?

Solution: Please. Quit insulting me! This is too easy - use your eyes! Girlfriend is wearing a carabiner!

Carabiners (below) are the exclusive property of dykes.

We love them because they're handy, seem like tools, and we think they make us look like this:
Which they don't. But it doesn't matter, because any girl wearing her keys on a carabiner (so they bang against her leg) might as well be wearing Homo Jingle Bells.
Fa la la la lez!

Gold Star Lesbians

"Krista, what the hell is a Gold Star Lesbian?"

My mouth fell open. Here I was with my straight friend of ten years, and she didn't know what a Gold Star Lesbian was? After all this time spent eating delicious fried food with me?

Come on!

A Gold Star Lesbian is a lesbian who has never slept with a man. She's been gay since birth. Soooo gay that she never even thought to check out the other side. Sooooo gay that she might never have even seen a penis in real life. A Gold Star Lesbian is the gold standard - the gayest of gay.

I wish I was one.

Just kidding! If I hadn't tried boys, how would I know how infinitely superior girls are??

I've slept with boys. It was...grunty.

Anyway! the point is - Gold Star Lesbians are finger-bangin' great. They don't have diseases. (Unless they sleep with lots of bisexuals.) They'll sleep with you when you have your period and say things like, "I think it's beautiful. It's part of being a woman" while you die laughing. They know their way around a girl.

And lots of lezzies want to be one. Gold Star Posers! There are plenty of girls trying to hide that onnnnnnne little dick-slip they had in high-school. But there's no covering it up.

Because being a Gold Star Lesbian is kind of like being an Eagle Scout. You can't always put your finger on it, but there's something good about it.

The Naked-Lady Spa

Saturday was my birthday!

Do you know what happens on your birthday?

No?

Everybody else has to pay $35, but you get in free at the Olympus Spa (aka the Korean Naked Lady Spa) in Seattle!

Don't be jealous.

My friend Kirsten said we were going. This is what I pictured:

Happy birthday to me.
But it wasn't like that.

When you walk in the door, Korean ladies give you a clipboard with stern reminders like, "Clothing of ANY KIND is STRICTLY prohibited" and "Women on their menstrual cycle are prohibited in the pool area." Then they give you a hospital-robe and a gorgeous cotton showercap. And a tour! You get to take a tour of all the special rooms, and everybody looks like a patient in the psych ward, all drinking tea in their showercaps.

I was imagining a Turkish-bath sort of situation, with steaming clinical-looking pools and cement floors, but this was actually posh.

I was also imagining enormous women with tits hanging down to their knees, but I forgot I live in Seattle, so that everywhere I looked, there were more attractive naked women. "Clothing prohibited." Thank you, Jesus.

Where to look??? At first, I didn't look at anyone, for fear they would be alerted to the fact that I was a huge pervert. Then I realized it couldn't matter less. We all had the same equipment. For once, I was free to stare openly at other womens' chests, and for once, it was completely non-erotic. Is this not irony? I spend most of my waking life telling myself, "Don't look at her boobs. Don't. Look. At. Her. Boobs", and here were thousands of bouncing breasts, here for the eye-raping!

And I didn't even care. By the end of the day, I was so relaxed, I was floppy. At the Korean Naked Lady Spa, it was nudity en masse, and it was actually very normal. I was not having erotic fantasies at any moment. No lie! This must be how it feels to be a straight girl all the time! God, if I were a straight girl, I would get so much done. I would have so much free time from not-thinking about hot women that I would be painting napkin-rings to match my barrettes. I would put window-clings up for every holiday. I would buy air-fresheners and bake shit and work out like 20 hours a day.


My life would be easy.

True or False:

A fag is a gay boy who acts queeny.

True! If you're talking about boys.

False! If you're talking about lesbians.

Don't get confused. A fag is just a butch lesbian who is attracted to other butch lesbians. Boi on boi, get it?

The lesbian community does not always regard fag relationships highly. Neither does straight society, which, if it has to be confronted with gay women at all, would be much happier seeing two blonde femmes delicately lapping at each others’ "kitties". You know. Like they do in porn.

Hello! Butch-on-butch love can be HOT. When I’m alone in my bed and…reading, my mind always goes back to butch-on-butch scenarios. Mmmm big muscle-y dykes with power tools and handcuffs…anyway! just think about it.

What if you could have two of these little treasures? All making out with each other in front of you? Jesus.

However…just like with all lesbians, it’s not usually like that in real life. Butch-on-butch is sneered at by a lot of queers because it often..just…ain’t…sexy when you see it. Sometimes lezzies kinda, um, let themselves go, and nowhere is that tendency more prevalent than in the butch-on-butch situation. I like a thick girl myself, but man! I don’t wanna picture two flabby butches in leather, bumping their bellies and stretch marks together.

And I wouldn’t picture it, except for I think about people having sex like it's my job.

Power Dykes

When I was in middle school, there was a surprise assembly for the 8th-graders. We were herded into the gym, and as we settled ourselves on the bleachers, the Power Team burst in and catapulted themselves onstage. The Power Team! Men and women with huuuuge muscles; neon-yellow Lycra outfits; giant hair! They could do flips from a standing position! They could lift each other up with one hand! Every time they did a trick, they would all growl in unison, "POWER TEAM!!!"

They grunted. They sweated. One lady ripped a phonebook in half with her bare fucking hands.

She was an animal! Her forearm-veins popped.

POWER TEAM!

It was all anybody could talk about for days. We would crumple up our soda cans and grunt "Powwwa Team!!" It was the punchline.

I still do this. If it's funny once, it's funny every time.

Today's post about Power Dykes has nothing to do with the Power Team. It's just that every bitch from Bay View Middle School seems to have forgotten how amazing that was!

But I digress. We're here to talk homos. And inquiring minds want to know: What's a Power Dyke?

A Power Dyke is a lesbian who makes a lot of money in a professional setting. She may even make as much as a man!!

Probably not, though.

Power Dykes live in big cities. They don't rent; they buy. They flip houses. They have vacation homes. They also have a time-share at a condo in Mexico. More than the time-share itself, power dykes like to say, "I have a time-share at a condo in Mexico." (The feeling they get from saying this is a shudder of pleasure - something akin to an orgasm.) They drive subtly luxurious cars, but nothing as ostentatious as a BMW or a Porshe. Power dykes are more likely to to buy the really high-end Volvo, instead of the middle-of-the range Volvo. Wooo power has its perks.

Power dykes, for all their money, often dress astonishingly poorly. Your Super Power Dyke has a closet full of tailored suits and tasteful accessories, but the power dyke struggling up the corporate ladder wears pants that don't fit her and fugly polyester-mix jackets. She is identifiable by her bad haircut, which is a mixture of a butch haircut and a stripper haircut (think obvious highlights and the word "funky.") The resulting style is...confused.Now, power dykes tend to be incredibly private people. This is because they are afraid to be openly gay, as it might affect their jobs. A good place to look for a power dyke is in a hospital - either administration or one of the doctors. She might also be the CEO of an odd niche company that you've never heard of, like a company that makes carpet staples.

WORKAHOLIC! The power dyke defines herself by her job, like a dude. No fun. She does, however, pick up the check. And the rent. And the grocery bill. There is nothing the power dyke likes more than paying for your ass. Good thing, too, because there is nothing I like better than having someone pay for all my shit. In a social setting, the power dyke prefers classy straight bars, also known as "boring places." They have trouble getting laid and often post sad ads on Craigslist with the title "Professional Lesbian Seeking". (Wow! You're a professional lesbian?)

Power dykes are fucking freaks in bed. You work all day with douchebags in khakis, you wanna blow off a little steam. My friend "Ray" is a power dyke, and she bit a girl's tongue almost in half during sex. No lie. Bitch needed stitches! I dated one, and I couldn't walk properly for the entire 10 months of the relationship. Owww.

Bike Punk Dykes

Once upon a time in my early twenties, I met an interesting girl we'll call Kat.

Kat was muscle-y and had short, bleached-white hair. She had piercings all over her face, ripped tights, and a bad attitude. She a wore miniskirts with legwarmers and smoked cloves. She had a tattoo of the Mississippi River all the way down her back. I had never seen anything like her. I became instantly obsessed with my new mission: tracing down the Mississippi with my tongue.

When I finally achieved this goal, I noticed something: She tasted like dirt.

Kat was my first bike punk dyke.

A bike punk dyke is the same as a Rabidly Political Dyke, except she doesn't care about any cause except herself. And her bike.

Bike punk dykes won't call themselves lesbians. They use the word "queer" exclusively. This is in case they slip, while wasted, and have slutty times with a boy. Well, it's hard to tell what's under all that hair!

They only date each other. Because of this, the usual ban on sleeping with a friend's girlfriend is lifted. It is not unusual to meet a group of bike punk friends who: live together; have all slept together; are all currently sleeping together, and/or have members who are sleeping with each other "secretly" but everybody knows and is fine with it.


They talk in a strange language that involves the words "fixies" and "mustache handlebars" and "single-speeds" and "vertical dropout" and "grip-tape." Bike punk dykes sometimes buy really expensive bikes and then paint over the brand-names with black paint. Those are the bike punks with Rich Parent Shame.

Bike punks are dumpster-divers. Not because they want to reduce waste, but because they are cheap bastards. They are vegetarians by default, since meat goes bad fast in a dumpster. They'll drink if it's free. Hell, they'll drink if it's not free - bike punk dykes just drink.

They believe in anarchy, but only the fun kind of anarchy where you get to steal shit.

They are fun girls to have around. Bike punk fashion is awesome. These ladies know how to avoid work better than any other lezzies around. They love to dance, screw, and smoke. They always go to indie concerts. They do all their own piercings - how fucking hardcore is that? Plus they know how to do bonfires right. They swear like sailors, and they have great bodies.

HOWEVER......

Bike punk dykes do not wash. They don't take baths. Not for you, not for anybody. And they think their own "natural" (read: armpit) smell is sexy. Mmmm just imagine getting that gamey taste in your mouth...

Rabidly Political Dykes

Soooooo, sometimes you care about a political cause. Like Obama. Or gay rights. Or saving the manatees. Foreign languages in schools. The over-use of fur in fashion magazines. Or, um, sharing the road with bicycles. Preservative-free food for babies. Breastfeeding and pandas. Whatever. Everybody cares about something. Rabidly political dykes, however, care about everything.

These girls can be found in their natural habitat – the protest rally. Or the meeting to organize a protest rally. Easily identifiable by their beater cars (or bikes) with more than 5 unrelated bumper stickers, rabidly political dykes hate and love to be oppressed.

This category can cross over onto any of the already-mentioned lesbian categories. If you’re unsure whether your crush is a rabidly political dyke, there are ways to be certain.

1) It's 8 a.m. You say, “Good morning.” She says, “Did you read that piece of trash from Ann Coulter in the NY Times today???!! What a righteous cunt!”

2) Around the water cooler, you say, “Wasn't The Office sooo funny last night?” She says, “I don’t have a TV," in smug-bitch voice.

3) You're going to have sex! You say, “Do you like Barry White?” She says, “Did you know All Things Considered is on?”

4) Your dream date: Ellen. Funny and cute. Ok-or-Angelina Jolie-but-only-in-Tomb-Raider-and-only-if-she-wears-the-outfit.
Her dream date: Rachel Maddow. A smart democrat and she's not ugly.

5) Your best impression: Scooby Doo.
Her best impression: Sarah Palin denying knowledge of the Axis of Evil.

Good things about rabidly political dykes:

They always take your side if you’re sleeping with them. They’re easy to shop for, since they’re secretly attracted to expensive yuppie things. They have rich parents. They travel to fun places to protest, like Washington D.C. They can always score weed. They always know which speaking events will have an open bar. They have lots of cool friends in lots of places, and you can stay with them for free. They have the best smartass t-shirts. They are really fucking sexy when debating, and they sometimes wear hot glasses. They’re in great shape from all that marching. They win every argument.

Bad things about rabidly political dykes:

VEGANS. They feel they don’t have to shave anything, and that includes bush. They say irritating things like, “Is this biodegradable?” and “Don’t eat that. It has like 30 chemicals in it.” You can’t bring one home to your parents because she and your dad will start World War III. They’re poor. They have toilet paper in their house that costs 6 bucks a roll and disintegrates in your hand. They can’t appreciate strippers. They have more than one cat. They get pissed if you use the word "retarded". They won’t go see the new Beyonce movie. They have weird, nagging ‘inspirational’ wall hangings that say things like, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” There are Tibetan prayer flags somewhere in the house. They win every argument.

Dealbreakers

Happy day-after-Valentine's Day! I hope yours didn't suck. I myself had a brilliant Valentine's Day, filled with laughter and happiness and magic and homemade pot roast and brand-new white underpants all taunting me on my cute little piece's ass.

Now, for all you lonely motherfuckers out there, I want to discuss something. That something is Dealbreakers.

A dealbreaker is something that you would break up with a new girlfriend over. A dealbreaker is the one thing, or several things, that you cannot tolerate under any circumstances. If your date does it/has it, you leave immediately - no more texts, nothing.

My dealbreaker, for instance, is Large Nipples.

I'm not kidding. I could be in the middle of undressing Angelina Jolie, and if she had large nipples, I would leave bitch shivering in the cold. I once had a episode with a girl with long, silky hair and prominent hipbones (my favorite.) She was perfect. She was gorgeous. She was Catholic and all guilty. It was awesome.

Then she took off her bra....and SHE HAD NIPPLES THE SIZE OF YARMULKES. Dinner-plate-size. I didn't even know what to do. They were just staring at me, like, "What now, bitch?" I panicked. The end of this story is not pretty. I got the hell out of there and spent the rest of college avoiding her in creative-writing classes.

Large nipples scare the shit out of me. I could not carry on. You see? Dealbreaker.

I polled some dykes at the coffee shop this morning for their dealbreakers. Here's just the tip of the iceberg of what I got, in no particular order:

1) Obvious tooth decay

2) A dog that sleeps on the bed

3) Cheap bitches

4) Women who don't shave/groom/clip their pubic hair, ever - thus making it impossible to locate their genitals

5) A piercing on the top of your nose-bridge, right between the eyes

6) Extremely obese people

7) Someone who is not a vegan (WTF?)

8) Back-of-the-neck piercing

9) Smokers

10) Women who use any of the following words: 'Presh', 'sitch', 'LOL', 'Dave Matthew's Band', and 'touch base'.

Some of these I can understand. But some of these - who are you dating, homeless people? Who DOESN'T know, by now, that you have to shave that shit? Obvious tooth decay? Wouldn't that be a disqualifier by default??

I ask you. No wonder girls have trouble getting together. We're meeting other lesbians, hoping to get laid, and.. they have neck-piercings. Goddamn. We ain't asking for much. It's a rough world out there for lady-lovas.

Bisexuals

Bi-bi, love. Bi-bi, happiness. Helloooooooo, loneliness. I think I'm gonna cry-i. Bi-bi, my love, good-bi-i....

Oooh today I feel like talking about bisexuals. Let me just crack my knuckles. Ahhhhh.

Bisexuals make up a huge percentage of women who love women. And some of them actually like women as much as they like men!

But not many.

Bisexuals take it from all sides. Hee. The punching bags of gay existence, bisexuals are often targets for derision from the entire queer community. This is because, rather than thinking bisexuals are the sexually-evolved free-spirits they claim to be, everybody thinks the bisexual will leave them for the opposite gender.

And they will.

Who hasn’t been burned by a bi? I swear to God, I can't learn. I cannot. This happens to me over and over again. I know how the story ends! Do I still fall for bisexuals?? Fuck yes! Do I still think they're going to choose me over Penis? Fuck no!

Oh, the tricky bisexual. The gorgeous girl who “only loves people, not body parts” and then leaves for a very different body part altogether. We gays are wary of them for a reason.

That’s because there are very few real bisexuals. Real bisexuals, by the way, are people who love boys and girls 50/50, right down the middle. Chances are, your bisexual has a tendency to go for one or the other. The bisexual girl, especially, tends to like dick. She may date women for years, but if she’s bisexual, she will probably go back to men eventually. Sorry, angry bi girls. There are only a few things going on that could be true for a woman who says she’s bi:

1) She’s gay and she’s testing the waters. Telling people she’s bi is the first baby step towards coming out completely.

2) She’s going to date men and women and then pick the gender she likes best (probably men.) Let’s face it – around 85% of the population is straight. We queerettes just need to deal with it and realize that the odds are not in our favor. The malestick has an irresistible draw. So does social acceptability.

3) She’s not bi, she’s just slutty. She'll go with whoever is willing to do the work. Boy, girl - it couldn’t matter less as long as she gets laid. This girl is a dirty bird, so beware and use a dental dam. And gloves. And don’t make out with her at the bar for her boyfriend’s benefit, no matter how drunk and hot she is.

*NOTE* A good rule of thumb, when doing bisexuals, is this: If she sleeps with men, she sleeps with penises, and that means you should definitely, definitely have safe sex. BOYS ARE DIRTY. THEY HAVE DISEASES. Do not put your mouth where any dick hits it on a regular basis. Insist on proof – recent lab paperwork that states she’s clean. Accept no substitutes. Imagine trying to explain where you got syphilis to your next gold-star dyke. You’ll never get laid again.

*ANOTHER NOTE* Bi's are not all bad. You can have some beautiful, beautiful experiences with a bisexual girl. Lots of them are really hot. Some of them turn gay. Some of them fuck lonely lesbians like it’s their Saturday night job. Some of them really do like both genders equally.

And some will have sex with you and then wake up the next day going "Ewwwwww."

DYKE STYLE UPDATE!!

Math problem!
Quiz:

Tara likes coffee. She gets her coffee everyday from Real Dykes Drink Diesel, a local coffee shop. Tara has been stalking the barista, Kelli, for months. She is afraid to ask Kelli out, for fear that Kelli is not gay and would ban Tara from the coffee shop. Tara needs to know if Kelli is gay before she makes her move.
Kelli has: long hair, short nails, glasses, no tattoos, a lip ring, wears pink, and carries a purse.

If we take into consideration the fact that lots of straight girls work in gay coffee houses,

WHAT ARE THE CHANCES OF KELLI BEING A LEZ?

Solution: Trick question!!! Kelli has a lip ring. That automatically makes her a dyke.

A lip ring is like the number "0" in multiplication. It cancels everything else out.

Only homos get lip rings.

Studs

Actual conversation.

Me: Helllooooooo. Who's the cute stud?

Chinda: That's my friend M.J.

Me: Wow, she's ripped...she has a gold tooth! Omigod I wanna meet her. Omigod I can't!

Chinda: Try and be cool.

Me: Gaaaaack.

Chinda: Do not embarrass me.

Studs are African-American butches. They are really really butch - these people are not playing around. They often, but not always, consider themselves transgender. They can usually pass for men, even when strangers are scrutinizing them carefully.

You can't be a stud if you're white. That would be stupid.

*(White Lesbian Rapper, I'm talking to you.)*

Studs are NEVER bottoms in bed. They are usually stone-cold butches. That means you can't touch their lady-parts.

The stud can be found leaning silently up against a wall in a dark club. She is checking everybody out. Smile at her and one of two things will happen -

-If she thinks you're cute, she'll murmur "How you doin'?" all seductive-like, i.e. Joey on Friends.
-If she doesn't, she'll give you the upwards-head nod and look away.

Studs go out all the time. They're fabulous because they won't let you pay for anything. It actually hurts them physically to see you get out your wallet. We need more of these homos! Seriously, studs are always out. Go to a concert - she's there. Go to a dance club - she's there. Study at the cafe? - she's there. Go to your nephew's bar mitzvah? - she's there. OK, just kidding on that last one.

They wear fitted baseball caps, boxers, big jeans, and big t-shirts - all clothes that white people call "urban wear." (Side note - White people, if you live in a city, wouldn't anything you wear be called "urban wear" as well? Just a thought.)

Studs are label-whores. They are even worse than High-Maisans in this department. Every single article of clothing the stud wears has somebody's name on it. Air Force One. Nike. Sean John. The shoes (always sneakers) are spotless. Also, all studs own diamond stud earrings, and there must be a diamond earring in one ear at all times. Studs wear studs. They never wear makeup. There is at least one tattoo, and it is usually the praying-hands-clasped-together or Jesus-y kind. One stud I know has her own name tattooed on her shoulder -she says it's because she's the only bitch she can trust.

They date femmes. If there is an exception to this rule, I haven't seen it yet.

Studs often cheat. Sometimes they have "mistresses." Let's let them.

Oh, BTW:

If you love studs, the best place on the planet for you is Atlanta. Every other girl in Atlanta is a stud! Just walking through the airport is enough to give you whiplash. What am I supposed to even do???

Lesbian Until Graduation (LUGS)

Today I want to talk about a phenomenon known as "Lesbian Until Graduation (LUG)," a kind of "dyke" that has been creeping up into everybody's business since the 70s. Perhaps you know one? I sure as hell do.

LUGs are an interesting breed. They technically fall under the ‘bisexual’ category, but being a Lesbian Until Graduation is so common that it gets its own separate listing.

What is this? The label says it all. A LUG is a girl who says she’s a lez for most of the four years of college and then magically turns straight and gets married, almost overnight.

Q: How does this happen?

A: Well, college students are impressionable sheep, and it’s fucking trendy to be gay. Haven’t you noticed? Ellen. The L-Word. Girls Gone Wild. America’s Top Model. Will and Grace. Queer As Folk. Lindsay and Sam. Sex and the City.

Girls, by college age, have dated a few douchebags. They’re tired of competing to see who the Hottest Girl in the Room is. They’ve noticed that, while they kill themselves waxing, tanning, working out, plucking, tweezing, exfoliating, shaving, highlighting, squeezing, moisturizing, and dieting, the boys consider cargo pants “dressed up.” College girls want to break out – try something different. After all, that’s why they came to college.

They maybe take a few drama classes. Maybe some sculpture. Nothing big. They might go on Study Abroad.

And then they notice them. Lesbians. Lesbians everywhere. Arty dykes with cool hair and nose rings. Hot girls who are pulling off ‘hot’ while wearing flat shoes. Girls with discernible arm muscles. Girls who are getting laid without even shaving their armpits. Girls with opinions, girls who argue, girls who follow politics, girls who talk back, girls who don’t want/need/care about male attention.

And these girls are the coolest. They are girls like the collegiate freshman has always wanted to hang out with and never met. They're so...different!

But how to break into that inner circle? How to get invited to lesbian parties? How to feel socially oppressed when you're white and privileged? How do you get to warm your hands around a mug of coffee with a smartass dyke for a best friend?

You have to sleep with them.

So that’s what the LUG does.

Four years later, she’s ready to return to the heterosexual world; renewed, like a beautiful butterfly that wants to feel the special feeling that only comes from a cock in your mouth.

Dyke Style Alert!

Do you own this bag?

Are you a girl?

Then you're a lesbian.


Seriously, wearing a bag like this ups the chances of a girl being gay by 98%. It's a proven fact.

Cause most dykes hate purses.
But they still have stuff.
And these bags look tough and bike-messengery - nothing like a purse.

Wanna tell if a girl is queer? Just look for the messenger bag.

The Asian Mafia

Asian lesbians have their own category for a reason. Asians stick together. Key word: TOGETHER. Asians, all Asians, travel together, live together, work, eat, and sleep together, hang out together, and go out together. If there is an Asian in the room, she is scanning the room to find another Asian.

So naturally, this rule applies to Asian lesbians. If you are lucky enough to know one Asian lesbian, you will soon know eight. But (assuming you are not Asian) you will not be part of the group. You will never be part of the real group. YOU CANNOT BE PART OF THE ASIAN MAFIA UNLESS YOU ARE ASIAN. Sorry. No matter how much you want to be; no matter how many Asians you screw; no matter how long you spent in Thailand; no matter how good your Japanese girlfriend tells you your manga drawings are. You will never break into the Asian mafia.

Now this is a damn shame. Because Asian lesbians are, 99% of the time, ferociously hot. Let’s face it – Asians are superior to everyone else in almost every conceivable way. They don’t age. They don’t get zits. They’re naturally thin. They produce the most motherfucking adorable babies in the world. They are math geniuses, and they invented sushi. Who are these perfect people-machines?

There are a few different types of Asian dykes, starting with:

High-Masians
High-Masians are High-Maintenance Asians. You know who I’m talking about. A tiny, dainty, delicate flower, almost buried under the weight of all that Gucci and Louis Vuitton. She has impossibly teensy skirts, French-tipped nails, thigh-high socks, high heels so high that they alllllllmost bring her up to your height, thoroughly straightened long hair, and seriously glossy lips. Thinking nothing of wearing fake eyelashes during the day, the High-Masian is a super femme on steroids. Except minus the irony. Kinda looks like a living Bratz doll. She smells like vanilla and Expensive. She is used to people falling all over her.

If she’s adopted, she’s a bitch.

If she was born and raised in an Asian country, she’s a giggler.

High-Maisian lesbians are extremely difficult to sniff out. We mortals don't have access to this level of hot! Piercings are a good sign. But again, best to see her at a gay club dancing with lesbians, or have a seriously dykey conversation before asking her out. And remember to watch your back - she’s got a big brother. Or four. And, um, 32 male cousins “looking out” for her. Note: Asians don’t fight alone.

The Butch
The Asian butch is, in some ways, cooler than the Caucasian butch. She’s a little more street, a little more hip-hop; a better dancer; a more thoughtful going-out partner. Easily crushed, kind of shy, even if she pretends not to be. She’s sometimes a little stocky, in a teddybear way. She wears a diamond stud in one ear. She’s good with a strap-on. She will take care of your ass. She will not ditch you. And she doesn’t kiss and tell.

The Boi
The Asian boi is a rare bird. OMG she has elaborate tattoos. OMG she has a cell phone as tiny as a pinky fingernail. Her hair is awesome. She knows how to dance. She tells Asian jokes. She puts Sriracha sauce on everything. And every goddamn thing she does is cute. She is a steal. But she is so used to getting hit on that she can get real tiresome, real fast.

Think about it - adorable boi + Asian (and therefore superior) = screaming femme girls chasing her like the Beatles.

Important Things about Asian Lesbians:

-They are the women most likely to still live with their parents. This is not out of a dependence problem – this is because their parents expect them to, since they’re not married. However, this does not mean that they’re not financially independent. They have more money than any of us, and they like to spend it on going out.

-They are also the lesbians most likely to still be in the closet. Again, cultural and family expectations.

-You will never, never understand how much their mother means. And why they can’t move out. Or come out.

-Their family will always come first. You second.

-They have to go to every second-cousin-removed’s wedding, without fail. Not going is not an option.

-They often date each other for two reasons:

1) Goddamn, it’s easier. You don’t have to explain the family expectations. You don't have to explain your mother. You don’t have to explain why you’re not out. You both just understand.

2) Asians are really hot. Two is better than one.

The “I-Don’t-Like-Labels-Don’t-Call-Me-A” Lesbian

I'll tell you what I can't stand: Girls who like girls but refuse to label themselves in one way or the other. WTF?? Labeling is fun! How else are we going to identify and make fun of so many groups, you crystal-worshipping dumbasses?

I am happy to announce the "I-Don't-Like-Labels-Don't-Call-Me-A" Lesbian as a separate category because, by categorizing this phenomenon, we are labeling it, and that is going to piss off so many annoying people. The "I-Don't-Like-Labels-Don't-Call-Me-A" Lesbian is incredibly easy to identify because she says tiresome things like, “I don’t love genitalia; I love people,” and “I’m not anything you can label; I’m just me.” She will usually say this looking deeply into a woman’s eyes over a private cup of coffee.

Difficult to read in a social setting, the "I-Don't-Like-Labels-Don't-Call-Me-A" Lesbian is nonetheless the easiest person to spot and sleep with, once you get her in a one-on-one situation. If she, at any time, utters the phrase, “I wouldn’t call myself a lesbian; I just love who I love,” consider that an open invitation. Get the check, get the coats, and get her in your car.

Super Femmes

Where the butch lived in terror that she would have to participate in Home Ec., the Femme got an A+ and stitched needlepoint heart-shaped pillows for extra credit. Yay girls!

The femme grew up like your average girly-girl. She had long hair. She was in dance class. She sketched horses on her notebooks. Her daddy called her "lil bit." She wore pink corduroy jumpers and had curly shoelaces. And she never had a problem with that.

The word ‘femme’ encompasses a large group of lezzies. There are lots and lots of dykes that take on the femme label, including punk girls in skirts who might beat you up, straight-looking-and-acting gay women, women who just aren't out, and women who love love love girly shit like Lancome Juicy Tubes and Fendi and the car Elle drives in Legally Blonde. (BTW, if you know a lot about those three things, you're probably a femme. Or seriously whipped by one.) All of these mean ‘femme.’

Vast category.

Let’s break it up a little, shall we?

Super Femmes

The holy grail of many lesbians. Elusive, like the mystical unicorn, the Super Femme is a badass girly-girl. Often sought, rarely found, the Super Femme is 100%, completely, absolutely gay and looks like the most feminine woman you’ve ever met. Unless you know exactly what you’re looking for, she is impossible to detect in the straight world.

The Super Femme takes it up a notch. Also known as a High Femme, the Super Femme is what men think of when they think about lesbians – nails done, tumbling hair, cleavage, tight skirts, tight dresses, high heels, makeup, Wonderbras, lip gloss, Brazilians, products all over the counter, jewelry, purses, pink drinks, bikinis….good-smelling gorgeous unreasonable goddamn femmes.

The kind of women people watch in pornos and think, “I’m into that.”

But make no mistake – Super Femmes do not have to look like the feminine ideal. They are not always in perfect shape, and they don’t always only fuck each other (contrary to popular boi and butch beliefs). They can be fat, curvy, BBW, thin, or fit, but the main idea is…soft. Soft hair, soft hands, soft lips, soft breasts nuzzling each other in a low-cut fuzzy pink sweater.

Super femmes do not always start out by dating women. Most commonly, they dated and slept with men for years before trying a girl, and *poof* never went back. Super Femmes do not fuck men after that, ever. That would be gross. Ewww! Super Femmes are not bi, they don’t want to let their boyfriends watch them make out with girls at the bar, and they are sick of dykes thinking they're straight, goddammit.

The Super Femme is bossy. She is in charge of her relationship, especially if she’s dating a butch – both in and out of the bedroom. Super Femmes tend to be either sexual tops or complete bottoms - not a lot of gray area in bed for her. She knows what she likes and, if you don’t, will teach you how to do it right. She is definitely out in the gay community. She takes a lot of shit from other dykes, her mother, and men. The Super Femme does not want a man. The Super Femme wants to fuck you really hard against a wall and then go have dinner somewhere nice.

Bad things about Super Femmes:

They are BOSSY. I believe we already covered that, but it bears repeating. Super Femmes have it in their minds that they are rare exotic magical birds-of-paradise. They feel that there are so few Super Femmes that they can do whatever they like with no consequences. This includes: sleeping around, using their partner's Visa to buy: 1)clothes 2)rent 3)anything else they want; talking in a baby voice; sulking and ruining an evening out; and putting stick-on gemstones all over their cellphones. Super Femmes make a choice to wear ridiculous shoes and then complain about it all night. They think they look good in white pants. They have difficulty distinguishing between "appropriate" and "are-you-kidding-me-you-look-like-a-stripper." They have fake nails and can rip your uterus into ribbons and give you a nasty infection if they're inexperienced. They say, "I just want a little bite" and eat everything on your plate. They're lazy. They can't save money. And they are scary motherfuckers if you piss them off.

Good Things About Super Femmes:

They smell great. They will cuddle your head against their breasts if you're sad. They are incapable of not-helping if they see someone who needs it. They have everything you could ever need in their purses. They force you to moisturize and use conditioner. They're good dancers. They're cheap dates - they can't hold their liquor.
They make really fucking snarky comments about people really quietly, while you fall out of your chair laughing. They buy presents for you. They remember birthdays. They can usually bake. Super Femmes are sexually adventurous - fucking in the bathroom stall is something they conquered at 14 years old. They're great travel partners, as long as it's not camping. They are way stronger than they look. They get free stuff all the time - upgrades to first class, show tickets, dinners, rides on strangers' motorcycles - just for smiling pretty. They make complicated lists. They want you to take a bubble bath with them. They know who just got eliminated on America's Next Top Model. They will beat the shit out of anybody who hurts anyone they love.

We'll do more on Femmes later - bitches have so many subcategories, my hands are cramping up just thinking about it.

The Foreign Lesbian

Homos, take a deep breath. We are about to tackle a real gaydar problem. A problem that seems so insurmountable that many lezzies have just given up. That hot girl from Spain who pulls your espresso in the morning... IS SHE OR ISN'T SHE???

The Foreign Lesbian is the most difficult of all the women listed so far to identify. The sheer magnitude of this task makes me want to cry hot little tears into my lap while watching Amelie for the 43rd time. Why? Because FOREIGN WOMEN ALL SEEM GAY.

My gaydar gets stuck on foreign women. All the classic North American Dyke signs are there – extreme eye contact, artistic haircuts, no makeup, way of walking, direct way of speaking, bluntness, personal style, etc etc etc. But most of these women are not dykes. No! They make extreme eye contact with everyone because people did that where they grew up. Their haircuts are awesome because they have prancing Italians named Luca to tend to their hair. They don’t wear much makeup because they don’t need to (foreigners are hot.) They speak directly because they are working in a second language and need to get their point across. They walk better because they have excellent posture and are confident in the knowledge of how hot they are. Their style is better because they don’t shop at Target for yoga pants. And.... most cultures that are not American are faaaaaaaar more sexually open or permissive than we uptight Americans are. Thus, a Foreign Woman may have slept with 16 women and 4 men, and still say with pouting lips, “I em only attracted to zee bee-yoo-tee of zee soul.” Foreign women do not like the word ‘lesbian’ because they associate it with Mack-truck-sized, flannel-wearing, flat-top sporting, hefty American lesbians. And currently, people will do anything to avoid being associated with America.

So you see, we have a problem. Because these fucking gorgeous women have accents. And that makes us quiver with desire. And some of them are gay. But which ones? How can we weed them out?

Let’s do it country by country.

If she is from:

Mexico: She’s not gay, or she totally is. No middle ground. Either way, she’ll be grabbing your boobs after 3 drinks. (Take her dancing.)

Russia: Not a chance. NOTE: All Russian women seem extremely gay, and none of them are. Not even one. Pity.

China: Lots of homos. Short haircut and unmarried is the key. If she has long hair: forget about it. *Bonus* She’s probably a math genius.

Taiwan: Good luck finding a femme from Taiwan. But if you want a butch or boi, you’ve got a green light. Look for short nails and extra-styley hair. And keep an eye out for the lone earring in the left ear. Taiwanese dykes keep it old-school.

NOTE: ASIAN LESBIANS ARE A WHOLE SEPARATE CATEGORY. MORE LATER.

Germany: Germany has a negative birth rate for a reason. All German females are homos. And watch out – they don’t shave. The Black Forest takes on a whole new meaning.

Italy: Fahgeddaboutit. Unless she is clearly butch, or a punk, Italian women love the cock. And they love it uncircumcised.

France: Oooooh she can whisper the sweetest nothings in your ear. Oooh you can take romantic walks in the rain. She’ll sleep with you, but she’ll never go all-the-way-gay. She has amazing underwear. Long, sweeping hair is not a disqualifier. Pillow queen!

Spain: Same as France, minus the underwear. Plan to get in some, um, passionate fights. This one throws plates.

The Netherlands: She’s from a country called “The Netherlands.” Go for it.

Iceland: She’s just…weird. Run away.

Eastern Europe: Not likely she’s a mo. But you can gaze at her from afar. She looks like a model and thinks lesbians are “disgusting, these women who want to be men.”

Brazil: She’s slept with plenty of people – boys, girls, that person at Carnival whose gender she wasn’t sure about…..if you are a good dancer, you’ve got her. Warning: Obsessive. And look out – she bites.

Australia: Tricky. She may seem like a sporty dyke. She is probably straight and on holiday in the US with her boyfriend and a backpack. However, Australians are slutty, and you may have a chance encounter if enough beer is involved.

Great Britain: If she looks like a total dyke, she is one. The less she bathes, the more likely it is that she’s gay. British dykes do not wear makeup. Actually, nobody in Britain wears makeup.

North Africa: Not gay. Not even a little. Not ever.

South Af